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by White_Rabbits_Clock



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Magic!lock, Minotaur! John, Wing! lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-03-29 18:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 26,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the magical city of Arcan, Sherlock Holmes goes to see a fight between the minotaur John and an avii (winged human) as part of a case. Later, he's asked to track down the minotaur, which has escaped his supposedly free life. Thus begins Sherlock's efforts to keep John hidden long enough to return him home, to the monster infested Deadlands and his nomadic minotauran tribe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_The magic in his armor would have him on ahead, supplementing his stamina where the purely human part of him runs out, if he still had it. The castle’s a great maze, it’s inhabitants great nightmares, and John is simply John. He can’t loose this time. He has to get out. Never mind the fact that the maze is a maze that shifts and its whims favor the pursuer, rather than the prey._

_Quite suddenly, the clear passage ahead of him is a wall. Tricked by magic again. Whose, John does not know, but he or she is there, confusing John. He veers left, but finds himself in the place he started. His bare feet slide from under him in the slick of blood he left behind there, right next to the body of one of his captors. He goes down hard, gets back up, keeps running. It’s too late, though._

_Magical ropes flick out of the darkness and jeering laughter. One catches him around the neck, and pulls. For the first time in the same minute, John’s balance is lost, and he looses a pained roar to the dark hallways of the Castle Monsique's, even as he struggles to keep going. Even as the magic in the ropes starts to burn into him, even as the human part of him slips away to a safe place, so that the animal in him may deal with the sharp stabs of everything bad._

_When he has finally been stilled by half a dozen glowing magical ropes, a figure appears in the gloom of Castle Monsique’s corridor. A human thumb traces over John’s cut cheek, agitating the cut there._

_“It’s too bad- you were almost out.” The shadow smiles and raises the impression of a jaw._

_“Put him in the cages. I like the fight in this one.”_


	2. Fights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sees John for the first time and makes a little anonymous trouble.

Sherlock glances at his brother, up here in the shadows of the theatre Caracan. He isn’t visible to most, but Sherlock is Sherlock, and he sees all. The avi turns his attention back to the dropped ground floor of the theatre.

The building is built a lot like a roman coliseum, except there are separate enclosures that seat one to three people for Arcan’s elite- in this case, it’s his brother and, in a separate box, he. Sherlock is just close enough that Mycroft can pick him out in the darkness, but far enough away that any snooping magic will have to be strong- and detectable.

Sherlock’s silver gaze is on the gates that he can just barely see from his angle. He quickly casts a Sight type spell and suddenly, the gates raising are right in front of him, and out of it trots one of the biggest creatures around: a minotaur.

Minotaurs are a race of nomadic bull-men that travel the Deadlands north of Arcan- they have been since the Purple War- when great bombs dropped from the sky and rendered a great deal of the land infertile and deserts sprung up all over the place. The Deadlands are different, though, because of the creatures that live there.

This minotaur is eight feet tall and covered in gold fur, his horns arch beautifully from his forehead and follow the curl of his skull. He’s young, Sherlock knows, because the horns have only just started to arc. It’s more like the end of his horns were flicked up, really.

He wears a black collar across his huge shoulder muscles and a cloth around his waist like the Egyptians of old. Around his right arm is a black band. Sherlock can see it’s a magical tracking band. The magic is woven into onyx to make it look like decoration so that no one will be able to tell that this minotaur is a prisoner. They all know it, of course, but it’s better for those in the audience to pretend like the nomadic giant is, indeed, here for the shits and giggles.

The great muscled neck of the minotaur bulges as his buffalo’s head raises to stare at the gate on the opposite end. Out of it is a tall avi, or winged human. Like Sherlock, the man down there is long and slender in his build, but still possessing a kind of wiry strength. Unlike Sherlock, who wears a black suit with a purple button down underneath and no tie, the avi is covered in black body armor that Sherlock just knows is magicked to be impenetrable.

The avi turns towards the crowd below Sherlock and raises his sword- it's a galdio- earning a roar of approval. The minotaur, however, just stands there, stupidly waiting. Sherlock can see past that brutal exterior, though. This beast is intelligent.

The avi- Konraud the Conqueror, as Sherlock’s program reads- turns and lunges at the beast in the ring with him, bright copper wings pressed oh so tightly to his back. The lunge is a feint, meant to confuse, to raise a reaction. The beast stays standing. Though it really was supposed to raise a reaction, the audience laughs as though the beast is stupidity.

When the avi finally does get down to the actual fight, the beast takes him sword for sword. Konraud’s sword is long, and six inches at it’s widest point. The sword, in the manner of avi smithing, starts with the wide base, dips and widens once more before narrowing to a vicious point. It’s a fine sword that gleams silver in the golden torchlight. Sherlock’s would gleam black, if he had it with him.

The minotaur’s sword is an embodiment of the creature itself, as Konraud’s is for him. It’s not like any sword Sherlock’s ever seen. At a third of the minotaur’s body length, it’s also the biggest. The handle has a diameter of roughly three to four inches, to fit the hands that wield it. The hilt is roughly fourteen inches wide. The blade is double edged, but plainly forged with no decorations. From hilt to eight inches from the tip, the blade is a foot long and sharp as hell- just one long solid bar of death. At the eight inch mark, the blade narrows into a vicious point. The whole thing is black as the night and deadly as it, too.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Mycroft’s magicked words say from right next to him. Sherlock rolls his eyes, as he knows Mycroft will see.

“It’s for a case.”

“You seem rather fascinated with that sword, though.”

“Congratulations. You know my destiny.” With that last remark, Sherlock waves his hand and the veins on the back and front of his hand glows silver for a moment before the silencing spell is complete. Despite his strong desire to, Sherlock usually refrains from blocking Mycroft out. It’s generally a bad idea. Now, though, Sherlock just wants to watch the minotaur and wait for his prey to move.

In the ring, the minotaur and the avi- he’s even taller than the average six feet six- are in a deadlock- a solid wall of death against a subtle knife against the same thing. Suddenly, the trembling arms of the avi gives way, and the galdio in his hand gives way. As it slashes down, it takes a bite out of the minotaur’s thigh.

First blood to Konraud.

The minotaur, who so far has fought in near silence, lets out a roar and lunges. The avi, who just a moment ago was grinning above his armor, is instantly put on the defensive as the great sword comes up. It’s deflected, but there’s not time to take advantage of that because the sword is now coming down. When the avi blocks that, too, the sword comes from a one-handed lunge, the other grasping the wrist underneath the armor, gaining the Konraud a stab to the gut. It is stopped by the armor.

The minotaur keeps driving, knocking away Konraud’s galdio before attacking the same spot over and over until magic fills the arena and the minotaur with it- it gives the avi time to hit back. Sherlock shakes his head. Really. If you aren’t going to fight a minotaur, why did you get in the ring with one?

His target, far below him, gets up just as the minotaur falls down. As the loser is swept from sight, the avi in the ring raises his hand in a fist, accepting praise and cheers for his cheating. No one saw him but Sherlock. The detective extends his hand, and, suddenly, the avi’s armor breaks where the minotaur had originally aimed.

Before everyone’s eyes, the powerful strength magic glows there, rent apart at the seams. Those in the crowd begin to boo as Sherlock follows his quarry out into the darkened streets of Arcan.


	3. Some Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is put on the trail of a new quarry. John feels like shit.

It’s sterile in here, the humming in John’s ears loud and penetrative. It gives him a headache as people bustle outside his rooms. Their squares- mobile phones, he thinks they call them- make the humming rise and fall. John lowers his head further and presses his velvety ears close to his skull. He really fucking hates the humming.

The door opens. The humming seems to explode, and John looks up in a slow, stone invoking stare. Three have entered. Two of them are regulars- guards who are supposed to make sure John doesn’t go or get killed or kill himself or anything like that. The one betwixt the two, though. She’s new.

Mousy hair has been drawn back, and John thinks they would make nice dreads. He still remembers how to make dreads. He would have gotten his a few years after It happened. He wishes he had dreads. Instead, he has as close as he can get- long hair tangled in scraggly knots all the way down his back.

Brown eyes fix on John’s disheveled and restrained state. Then she takes a step forwards.

“Hi, John. I’m Molly.” She says it like "John" is a name. John ignores her.

…

“Sherlock?” Molly calls out. It’s been a few days since she went to see Him- the blond minotaur looking more wild then tamed. He had bared his fangs at Molly every time the medical examiner drew close. It hadn’t ended well, really.

“Good evening, Molly.” So far, so good. He doesn’t speak at all if he’s in one of his moods. Molly thinks about the little plastic portfolio of information sitting underneath the vast majority of papers in her desk.

“I have something for you.”

“What something?” Comes the instant reply. Molly finishes unlocking the door to the corpse Sherlock’s been given and pulls it open while Sherlock moves the body onto one of Molly’s metal examination tables. He unzips the plastic bag, and Molly forces herself to stand as still as possible without freezing- he hates it when she freezes- as Sherlock’s shoulders relax a small amount- the only indication that he’s calming down, that he might just listen to her.

“A few nights ago this minotaur went missing.” Sherlock doesn’t glance up.

“So that’s where you got that injury.”

“Yeah…” The whole left side of her body is bruised, but Molly doesn’t go into detail.

“I was… wondering if you’d…” her words falter, drying up now that it’s time to ask, “find him.” That could be fun. Minotaurs not caught within the first twenty four hours tend to be extremely hard to locate, and Sherlock likes the challenge.

“Maybe. Do you have information on him?”

“Oh, of course,” she says nervously while she turns to get the folder. She’s not actually supposed to have this but she wanted to give Sherlock something to work with. Aside from wanting the minotaur found, Molly also wants it free. She’s worried about this minotaur. Sherlock could help with that, if he uncovers something interesting about the creature he’s going to hunt down. Maybe. Molly never really knows, with the detective.

“So I’ll see you?” Molly asks. Sherlock almost never comes back if he doesn’t have anything to bring him here.

“Maybe.” Then Sherlock is gone, just like that.

This is why you don’t need to drool over him, Molly thinks. People like him just don’t stay.

…

John’s feeling like shit just now. His fucking leg hurts, and he’s cold, he’s got no adequate clothes, he wants to go home and- oh, here’s the winner- he’s fucking LOST! John looks up. The rain pours down in heavy labor and it soaks John to the bone. He’s still feeling like shit just now.

Thunder booms overhead, fast on the heels of lightning. John pushes off the wall and trots down he alley, gait uneven because of his injury.

HOURS LATER

Sherlock walks slowly through the streets, looking for signs that the minotaur has been here. He knows the answer- it’s yes- but he would really like to try his hand at tracking creatures who supposedly leave no trace without the help of magic.

The rain has washed away everything. It runs down the back of his coat while Sherlock stops to think. He’s close to the city limits right now (Sherlock knows this instinctively. He knows what the edge of a cage feels like.) but he won’t be able to get out. Not without help.

Sherlock smiles to himself. He’ll just need to figure out how to talk to the creature, and then he can have some fun.

…

Blocked. There are supposed to be ways to slip through, but there aren’t. John is alone, out here on the edge between civilization and home. He really wants to go home. His leg still hurts. John reaches down and grips his thigh, clenching his jaw. He’ll have to get someone to take care of this.

Maybe the lady. But he’d have to do it in secret, because she was with the other people. She tried to stop him. Still, he has to find the lady with the mousy hair. John moves off again, his limp more pronounced this time.

He hates having to ask these “civilized” people for help. They need wild animals to get them through the desert, but they are supposedly better than their guides. Still, maybe this one will be different.

She never did try to hurt John, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update. May not come next week.


	4. Because You Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Molly, Sherlock catches up, and the three of them conspire to fool the world.

    SHERLOCK

 

    There’s at least one empty space in everyone’s mind. That’s the one and only lesson he absolutely needed. That empty space is how you see the world through another man’s eyes. It’s the first to wake up, and the last to die.

    It sees all and it is nothing. A minotaur’s head is different. To many creatures know how to get through to that space, wreck the walls of it, tear a man apart from the inside out. You can’t just “see” a minotaur’s Space. You have to sneak inside, which is exactly how Sherlock found John.

    He’s huge, really. Big, heavy masses of muscles connect rounded, tough shoulders to a thick neck. His back is a broad one, bared to the cold air and protected only by the golden fur and, in places, dark brown fuzz that covers his entire body. He’s wearing protective armor around his groin and not much else.

    The minotaur sits on Sherlock’s favorite table while Molly does work on the thigh wound he sustained.

    “Good evening.” Sherlock keeps his voice as even and nonthreatening as possible, all too aware of a minotaur’s tendency to startle.

“Sherlock!” Molly’s high squeak sends a tingle of fear down Sherlock’s spine. He’ll never admit it, but the minotaur could kill him if he panics.

“Calm down, Molly.” The woman ties off the thread for the stitches she was giving John. That’s as far as she gets, though. The minotaur stands and comes to face Sherlock directly. His body’s marked with the evidence of years of fighting, his large, liquid eyes have the look of a hunted creature. He’s beautiful, really, but Sherlock doesn’t stop to acknowledge this. Right now, he has to figure out how he’s going to hide the minotaur.   

 

…

 

    “We can’t just rename him! He’s not a slave!” Molly shouted at Sherlock.

    “I know he’s not a slave! I never said he was! And yes, we have to rename him because we can’t go walking around with someone who clearly doesn’t belong in a crowd, saying his name is John and expect no one to be suspicious that he might be a minotaur by the same name escaped around the same time period!”

    “We can’t jus-”

    “Yes, we can, and we have to.”

    “No, we can’t.”

    “And yet somehow it’s perfectly fine to dress him up like a doll.” All this, of course, is said in whispers as the minotaur in question pokes at the keys on Molly’s keyboard, the buttons on the automated keypad locks next to each cadaver freezer door, Sherlock’s riding crop, which he left (again), and various other things throughout the last few hours.

    “Well- John, you can’t touch those!” He’s found one of Molly’s sets of surgical instruments and is now playing with one of the sharpest, most deadly-looking knives in the bunch.

    The minotaur stops and looks at her. He’s sitting on an autopsy table (Sherlock’s favorite) with his legs crossed, evidently fascinated by the sharp little thing. Molly reaches for it (carefully) but John lifts it out of her reach and flares his large buffalo nostrils.

    A second or two goes by before John lowers the knife again and continues to poke the thing with one of his three thick fingers. Molly reaches out for it again. John lifts it again and then pushes himself to his knees, cocking his head in the other direction, his blond hair shifting with him.

    “Molly, he’s not going to hurt himself. Just let him have it.”

    “He cannot just run around with my-”

    “Yes, he can-” Sherlock rests his hand on top of Molly’s elbow- “and he is. We have better things to do than worry that John will prick himself on a knife.”

    “Well you-”

    “Have to make arrangements to make for John, here.”

    “Well then why are you still here?”

    “Because I need a name to put on his papers. Oh, and you need to do something with that.” He nods to the knots. “And find someone to teach him how to act like he belongs. He’s not getting dragged back to the ring because we didn’t teach him to lie.”

    “Lie?” John’s looking at them now. His ears flick to the left.

    “Yes.” Sherlock says evenly.

    “Why?”

“Because…” Sherlock’s mouth turns up at the tips- a little bit of evil grin “we’re going to fool the city into thinking that you’ve been here the whole time.”

 

…

 

Sherlock slides into a booth at Angelo’s. He stabs the noodles on his plate and takes a bite. Someone slides into the booth on the other side of his table.

“Good evening.”

“I suppose. Why did you call me?” Sherlock’s been thinking about this for a while now- how to bring his contact on board. Of course, the answer is relatively simple- challenge his pride. Unfortunately, there is an actual target he’s going for- say too much or just the wrong phrase, and he’ll find himself without a contact. Don’t say enough, and the same thing happens. So Sherlock finally settles on one thing, and thing only.

“How’d you like to wreak havoc, without anyone ever knowing what hit them?” The man looks out the window, watching the traffic.

“That depends. Who are we fucking over and why?” Sherlock smiles.

“Everyone, and because you can.”


	5. Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets his new identity, and the process of hiding himself begins.

They couldn’t use the name John. That much was obvious. He and Molly had fought the issue back and forth before he came here. Eventually, Sherlock showed John a list of names he could choose from using Molly’s computer. The name he chose (this seemed to mollify Molly for the moment) is on the papers in the manilla portfolio under Sherlock’s arm.

At the end of the day, they had managed to sneak John into someone else’s flat- someone who didn’t regularly speak with cops. Her name is Amber. She has the darkest skin Sherlock’s ever seen, and has the traditional desert beauty down pat; all fullness and curves.

He makes his way back to her secluded garden- not a flat. It’s a small rooftop house with a garden- and steps through the door and into the densely lush greenery. In a language Sherlock doesn’t know (but definitely wishes he does, now) he can hear John’s voice, then Amber’s. He watches for a moment, marveling at the change.

Amber has done something with the knots. In fact, she has done quite a bit with the knots. They now covered his entire head. Thick, blond dreadlocks rested heavily against John’s back and shoulders. Sherlock wants to touch them. He really does, but… well, he’s not going to.

John’s wearing what looks like a less conspicuous version of army fatigues, and he looks damn good. Not only that, but Amber has somehow gotten John to take a more human form. Like this, he’s not that big. In fact, he’s on the short side, but the face… Sherlock blinks.

John and Amber are sitting together, John listening intently to everything she was saying. Amber’s hands danced and swayed as she talked. John looks mesmerized because every time her palms show, the contrast between the skin on either side of her hands attracts his eyes.

Sherlock shakes himself. If Amber notices him standing here, she’ll probably pry. She seems like that kind of person. He moves forward, out from under the shade of Amber’s trees and over to the stone bench, where the two of them are sitting in the middle of the sunlight, not a drop of shade for either. It suits John well.

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock greets. Molly would be here in a few minutes. John looks at him. The liquid orbs of his minotauran eyes are now the smaller and more compact human version. Sherlock can see John’s sandy eyelashes.

“Good afternoon,” he repeats. Hmm. So Amber’s been teaching John as requested. Molly did well this time.

Sherlock looks at Amber, who steadily looks back at him. She’s trustworthy (he can tell), gentle, and a no bull-shitter. That’s good. Amber stands, addresses John in that language of theirs, and walks away. Sherlock follows.

“You know, when Molly said she had gotten herself into a mess, I didn’t expect that mess to be a socially inept minotaur.” Her accent fits her name perfectly. Sherlock merely shrugs. Amber goes on.

“I hope you have somewhere to put him and patience to care for him.” Sherlock looks at her.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a minotaur who hasn’t seen the light of day for some years. The number one thing to know about minotaurs is that they love sun.” At that, Amber nods to John, who has gone from sitting quietly (back straight, face neutral on the bench) to laying down. He’s flat on his back on the red tiled patio, limbs spread starfish style, and eyes closed. His face is turned towards the sun and he looks so peaceful Sherlock almost thinks him asleep.

He probably should have done some research because taking care of a minotaur who hasn’t seen the free light of day in some years suddenly seems much harder, especially since Sherlock doesn’t do too hot a job taking care of himself. He’s not going to let on, though. He’ll figure it out when he gets John to his flat. Hmm. There aren’t a whole lot of windows. He’ll have to set up something on the roof. Hmm.

“Hello, John,” Molly’s quiet voice floats over to them. Amber and Sherlock look over in time to see John stand up and turn to face Molly. Then he gives her a hug. It occurs to Sherlock that John’s mannerisms are a bit like his own when he’s supposed to socialize without lying, speak without gaining- discombobulated. Maybe it won’t be so hard, since John is clearly worse at this than he is and Sherlock doesn’t like talking to people.

“Hello, Molly.” It’s almost stiff the way he says it. Hmm.

“Sherlock. Amber.”

“Molly.” Amber says, her honey-and-liquor voice making it sound a little bit sexy. Everything sounds a little bit sexy when Amber says it.

“Good afternoon.” Sherlock says after.

“Where are we going next?” Molly says. She’s wearing a pair of light blue jeans, a black tee shirt, and tan moccasins. Her hair is drawn up into a ponytail, and her face is scrubbed of makeup, except for the chapstick she puts on so that she doesn’t lick her lips. She has with her a navy blue backpack with red and white hawaiian flowers all over it. It must be her sister’s because Molly would not have bought something so gaudy, nor would it have been bought for her.

“My flat. We need to get him settled in.”

“Don’t the police go there frequently?” Amber asked, somewhat amused and a bit apprehensive for John’s sake. Well, and herself, Sherlock thinks. No one wants to be affiliated with a man who has police in his flat on a regular basis.

“Yes. That’s why this is going to work.” Sherlock says.

“Right, but what’s his alias?” Sherlock smiles and pulls out his envelope. John has apparently decided that he should be spoken to, because he has stepped out of the sun and into the shade of the trees.

“What’s my name?” He asks abruptly. Sherlock opens his envelope and offers the I.D. with the picture Molly sent him. It’s been edited so that the knots don’t show. The name is what he picked out from the online list of names, and everything else has been filled in.

As of right now, John is Riley Watson, a 34-year-old native desert guide and adept doctor who just got to the city. It explains the awkward way of socializing John- Riley- has. It explains how his hands are big and scarred. It explains a lot of things. Also, he is a doctor. Sherlock deduced that about him.

The second part of his cover story is the explanation for his current status as Sherlock’s flatmate- who better to live with a man who insults people when they talk than someone who doesn’t? How convenient is it for a man who constantly throws himself in danger to have a doctor on hand? Very. The story is so plausible- and carefully so, Sherlock knows- that no one will look twice at the man and think “fugitive”. No one will look at the slight smile/grimace he makes when someone uses a turn of phrase he doesn’t understand and think “urban”. No one will care, because Sherlock’s story checks out. It always does.

“Shall we?” Sherlock asked.

 

…

 

Victorian wallpaper, Riley’s mind supplies him. He’s seen that kind of wallpaper before. Hmm. It’s dark in the flat, but Sherlock says that the roof is in full view of the sunlight. There’s a window in his room (yay). Said room has been supplied with a bed, dresser, nightstand, and mirror.

It’s wholly spartan (he also knows this term) and suits Riley well. He turns and tries to remember what he’s supposed to say. Ah, yes.

“Thank you.” Sherlock nods, accepting. He doesn’t seem like the type to talk much. That’s good. This talking to people thing sounds exhausting. Molly and Sherlock begin to talk (and to argue) while Riley looks around at his room. He gets the uncomfortable feeling that they’ve said something that’s gone over his head. He doesn’t think that’s fair. He’ll have to ask Sherlock what exactly “sarcasm” is.

For now though, John has his own room and Molly said she’ll get him his own clothes and Sherlock’s going to help him.

He feels, for the first time in a long time, content to be.

 

 


	6. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bored. Want to post. Not time to post. Solution: fanart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, please.

[ ](http://imgur.com/jOKqIPe)

 

 

-White Rabbit's Clock


	7. Tea, Shenanigans, and Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have their first row, their first case, and their first Mycroft special.

Oh, does it feel good to just be, sometimes. Riley’s perched on the table, still not quite used to sitting in chairs. He’s watching Sherlock as his (what is he? Friend? No.) as the genius puts the tea on and the toast on (that’s what he called it anyways- tea and toast) and basically goes about waking up.

Sherlock takes a little cup and sets a little bag in it and John can see what looks like different colored dirt through the thin fabric. As Sherlock moves away, John waits a tense few seconds for the bedroom door to click closed before he moves closer to sniff at the little cup with the bag in it. Mm. It smells nice.

John watches the water slowly turn brown. On a whim, he sticks his tongue into it…

“Leave my tea alone!” Sherlock exclaims, stalking forwards to rescue the already ruined cuppa. John starts and knocks the cup off the counter. Tea, cup, and bag all flying into space before Sherlock flings out a hand, says something in what sounds like a very dark language indeed, and the flying becomes floating.

Sherlock turns a scathing eye on John, who stays guilty for a moment before Sherlock says, “You can’t just upset things because you don’t know what they are.” At the phrase, John suddenly remembers that he’s a fucking minotaur and stands up as tall as his rather short human form lets him and opens his mouth.

“Oh, I’m sooooory. I had no idea the tea would go flying, especially since you startled me. Oh! And did I forget to mention that since I don’t know anything about where I am, exploring is what I do? If you don’t want me touching, fucking explain why,” John asked Sherlock what "sarcasm" is a few weeks ago. He turns in all his stunted glory and takes himself upstairs, where Sherlock knows he will ignore Sherlock for the rest of the day and probably tomorrow, too.

This is going to be harder than he originally thought. He considers calling Amber but decides that he doesn’t want to hear her “I told you so”. He opts for Molly as he pulls on his coat and steps out of the flat. He will get his tea where certain flat mates can’t stick their tongues in the damn cup and then yell at him over it.

 

…

John’s anger is, thankfully, short-lived (this time around), because, lord, does he get bored. On a whim (and because Sherlock likes the non judging way John watches everything), Sherlock invites the minotaur turned human along on a case, where an avi was killed.

When they get to the body, John grimaces. Sherlock glances at him, a silent inquiry. The minotaur leans close.

“She’s wearing pink.” Sherlock instantly loves it; John’s unflinching ability to say what he likes and dislikes without insulting or caring if he does.

“So she is.” Sherlock goes about deducing, and he forgets, for a time, that John’s not the minotauran fugitive who’s face is on every news channel. Until Anderson sticks his big fat nose in things. He’s talking to John- getting the feel of him. Sherlock lets John be, for now. After all, he’s holding up well; no unfortunate slips of information yet.

Rache.

Right. So, revenge in another language is pointless when this person has never had an interest in foreign anything. Discounting bodies, that is. Suddenly, he gets an idea, and the wings folded against his back do a small shift.

“Come, Riley.” John turns and goes, exited now. Sherlock always has the best of things to do. Hmm. He wonders if he can get tea from him later. Maybe if he’s in a good mood. Well, he could always try and make it himself. It didn’t look that hard. Hmm. Tea. In the cab, John’s leg begins to bounce as he thinks; a habit borne of having too much energy a great deal of time. Sherlock tells him to stop. Instead of stopping, John looks at him.

“When we get home can you make me tea?” The look on Sherlock’s face is slightly surprised and then:

“Yes.” John grins an unbridled smile so bright that Sherlock instantly wants to see it again. Maybe he should have let him have the tea this morning.

…

As it turns out, it’s not Sherlock who gets to give John his first cuppa, but the weird guy who’s asking to get killed. John’s in a box with no windows. It’s metal, and he can’t sense anything beyond that. He bangs against the box’s sides until he realizes that he is going to be ignored. Then he falls silent. He crouches in a corner, places his elbows on his thighs, and closes his eyes. This is fine. He can wait.

When the box opens up, John shoots for the entrance so fast that he nearly runs right over the man with the red hair. With a few words in a strange language, though, John slams into an invisible wall just an inch away from the bastard.

John gets to his feet quickly and tries to go around the man, then back the way he came, at the female, anywhere that leads out. It doesn’t work. John’s nose curls up in disgust at the chair and the cuppa sitting on the table next to it. He stands there, waiting. But he will not shift. Not until this has all been FUBARed so bad that he has no hope of maintaining cover.

He stubbornly does not answer any questions. He does not take the tea. He does not look the little fucker in the eyes. He does absolutely nothing and then-

“MYCROOOOFT!” Sherlock wings through the upper shadows of the great big building and lands with definite agitation in front of John.

“Really, brother mine, must you be so dramatic?”

“Leave Riley alone. Leave me alone. Do yourself a favor and don’t argue because I’m on edge right now. Riley.” Sherlock says as he turns and begins to walk the other way. John turns and gives this “Mycroft” fellow one more glare before following him.

“Did he do anything to you?” Sherlock asks quietly. His fingers rat-tat-tat a rhythm against his pant leg as they walk away from the warehouse.

“He tried to give me tea.” John says. The way he says it lets Sherlock know that he’s mildly disconcerted that the strange man knows he wants tea.

“Oh, that’s standard fare for Mycroft. Offer tea in one hand, and a contract in another,” Sherlock explains. There’s a moment of silence before John opens his mouth again.

“Will you still make me tea when we get back?” Sherlock turns and smiles at him.

“Of course. Do you like sugar?”

…

John does not get his tea until the next day, because the people who were at the crime scene come to Sherlock’s flat and start rifling through his things. Sherlock starts yelling at the weasel man who spoke to him earlier and everyone else before he abruptly flies out the window.

John, entirely too disconcerted by this whole evening, runs up the stairs and follows him by making the sometimes RIDICULOUS jumps across flat rooftops to an especially wide building that seems to have a twin. When the man who smells sick gives Sherlock the weird candy, John realizes that  the candy isn’t candy. When Sherlock lifts the almost-candy to the light right in front of John, the minotaur in him rushes to the surface.

When Sherlock gets back to the flat, John’s pacing, still with the cabbie’s blood all on his skin. He turns to Sherlock, seeking a verdict. The detective, having abandoned all hope for the now bloody shirt he’s wearing, simply hugs John and lets him know it’s alright. He trails his hand down John’s back and back up again before, at one in the morning, the minotaur thinks to ask:

“Tea?”

“Yes, tea.” Sherlock says with a quiet huff of a laugh. It is, John has decided, the best day he’s ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I haven't been getting comments lately, so it would be nice to know what you guys think!


	8. Good Sleep and Good Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attempts to sleep with a hungry John wandering about. John attempts to eat with a sleepy Sherlock not operating. The hunt for tea continues.

John rises at eight the following morning, even though the pair did not get to bed until three. He then proceeds to knock on Sherlock’s door three times every sixty seconds until Sherlock jerks the door open so fast that John almost hits him in the face.

“What. Do. You. Want?” He hisses. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he looks like he hasn’t slept at all.

“Food.” John says simply. He’s fed himself before, of course, but that was in the desert. You don’t carry things that go in the kitchen when you live in the desert. Food is gotten from the wide, shallow, root spread of cacti, and water from its main body. You don’t cook anything you don’t have to. The only exception is animal meat and the various fluids harvested from it. So John has no idea how to use the things in the kitchen.

The full magnitude of this dawns on Sherlock at eight in the morning when he’s still bone tired from the case. He shakes his head ruefully and steps past the threshold of his door, tugging up his robe as he goes.

“Breakfast it is, then,” Sherlock says as he leads the way to the kitchen. He considers showing John how to do these things himself, but he hasn’t the patience for teaching this morning. No, he just needs to get John and himself some food and then go back to bed. He can teach the minotaur later. For now, though…

Two plates of toast and scrambled eggs later, Sherlock rises to go back to bed when, halfway to the stairs, John says: “Tea?” Sherlock casts him a baleful glare.

“Sleep. Tea when I come back.” John’s hopeful expression falls as he carefully sets heavy ceramic plates in the sink and stares at the cabinets with the teacups in it, fully aware that the tea won’t be made until Sherlock wakes up, but hoping it would make itself anyways. He’s seen Sherlock make the tea, right? It looks simple… let’s see…

John digs around in the kitchen until he finds the little black pot and turns the tap on, filling it carefully. He’s careful not to spill a drop as he puts it on the thingy Sherlock cooks on and fiddles with the nobs, trying to figure out which one will make the pot scream. He turns all four on, since he can’t figure it out. (He could. He’s just impatient.)

A burning smell fills the kitchen, which John dutifully ignores while he moves boxes around until he sees the tea box that Sherlock pulled the bags out of. He takes to bags out and puts the box back. He watches the burning circles until the black pot screams. He turns all four knobs off (like he’s seen Sherlock do), and pulls out two of the cups. He sets the first tea bag in the first cup and pours the water, ditto for the second.

He watches as each cup of water slowly turns brown before he pulls out the bags and trashes them. He holds his hand under the bags and lets the brown water hit his palm before licking it off. You don’t waste things in the desert. You don’t waste things anywhere else.

He carefully pours grains of sugar (a luxury anywhere else. Sherlock told him he could have as much as he wants, here) in each cup and stirs as much as he can into the tea before placing one of the cups on a saucer and taking it down the hall. He knocks on Sherlock’s door. And knocks and kno-

“What now?” Comes the hiss for the second time. John, unbothered, holds out the tea and saucer in his hand.

“Tea.” Sherlock looks at it for a second before accepting it and taking a drink. He gives John a small smile.

“It’s very good, John, but do wait until I come back out to come for me again, yeah?” John nods and abruptly walks away. Sherlock sighs and closes the door where he quickly drinks the most sugary tea he’s ever had and then climbs back under the covers. He has magic spells for tracking. He has magic spells for murder. Why oh why did he forget about the practical spells like making tea and breakfast for hungry, persistent minotaurs?

As sleep washes over him once more, Sherlock marvels at the fact that John even made tea at all.

At eight in the evening, Sherlock drags himself down the hall to see that John has, indeed, been quiet. In fact, there’s no sign of him anywhere. With a muttered spell, he realizes that John is not in the flat at all, but all the way across town at… Amber’s place.

Well, then. Sherlock turns and strides back down the hall to get dressed. On his way up the stairs to the roof, he takes the tea cup and saucer back to the kitchen and grabs one of the last apples that haven’t rotted. He practically shoves it down his throat as he pulls on his shoes and outerwear. He then takes what is now three fourths of an apple up to the roof, spreads great black wings, and takes flight.

The city shrinks beneath him as he wings over the city, doing loop-de-loops and swan dives, slow spirals and breath-taking ascents. It is a strange city, and it’s airways are lovely. It takes him twenty minutes to get from his flat to the roof of Amber’s which he promptly lands on. He alights on the stone floor, Amber, John, and Molly are all sitting on the benches, talking about something trivial.

“Good evening.” Sherlock says.

“Hi, Sherlock! Look!” He holds out the rather large mug in one of his hands. It’s filled with tea. Sherlock smiles at him.

“Having fun?” John smiles and takes a drink.

“Stay a while, will you?” Amber asks, her voice rolling out the perfectly rounded syllables of an invitation, but promising a long conversation. Sherlock takes a seat.

“Hullo, Molly.”

“Sherlock. Did you wrap up that case you were working on, or was it the Yard?”

“John did, actually.” John, who’s apparently comfortable enough in Amber’s secret garden to adopt a half minotauran, half human form, flicks down his velvet ears and lowers his eyes in preparation for the disapproval. Molly opens her mouth to respond when she’s stopped by the twin glares of Sherlock and Amber.

“Oh, that’s good.” Molly says, noncommittally. What’s so wrong about John finishing the case?

“Can we go home?” John asks suddenly. His mug of tea is empty. That was a big mug. Sherlock nods and John gets up, delivers a swift hug to Amber and a more hesitant one to Molly, then proceeds to bolt away over the rooftops, seeking their flat once more.

Sherlock stands to follow, Amber’s words chasing him as he goes.

“Leaving him alone for a full day. Rather sloppy, isn’t it, detective?” Sherlock smirks at her.

“Maybe.” Then he’s gone, powerful wings propelling him just feet above the asphalt of the rooftops, chasing after his minotaur.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! couldn't resist the fluff, so let me know what you think.


	9. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock visit the bank.

John stands on the roof of Sherlock’s flat and stares as, at six fifteen in the evening, the sun is just barely touching the buildings to the west. His eyes are closed as he soaks up the last of the rays. He loves it out here. A gentle breeze swirls around his body, ruffling his hair. He wishes he could shift, but he doesn’t want to be seen.

The door, a big metal rectangle set flat into the roof, opens as Sherlock pokes the top of his curly head above the rim of the building.

“Case, John?” John nods. He hasn’t seen the city at night as a free minotaur, yet. When he was out in the desert with his tribe, he and his traveled at night during the hot season and during the day in the cold, so he’d go six months or so without seeing the stars, but they were always there. Thousands of tiny pinpricks glittered above him as he ran- traversing the sands to reach the next oasis before their supplies ran out and dehydration set in.

He wonders if he’ll be able to see the stars here, where there's always light and it’s never the kind of temperature that made the sky seem so surreal.

John reaches down and picks up his tee-shirt and sweater, sliding both of them on and adjusting to the feel of a different warmth. Next, he dons his socks and the shoes Sherlock gave him a couple days ago. After a moment, he gives himself a brisk shake and follows Sherlock down the stairs. They make the doorway and Sherlock flags down a cab.

Sherlock starts to tap on his leg, the peculiar energy he gets right before a case strumming through his muscles. As the cab pulls up outside a huge skyscraper in the inner city, Sherlock glances at John and offers a thin smile of reassurement- John did well with the officers last time, but it’s going to be normal people this time.

Sherlock climbs out of the cab and makes his way into the building, John tagging behind him. Sherlock first talks and then deduces their way past the guards and into the elevator. As the carriage begins to rise in a clear glass tube, Sherlock and John get eyeful after eyeful of office workers. They look like washed out bees.

Eighty seven floors up, the elevator spits them out onto yet another floor of low-level business people. There’s a man at the door wearing a navy blue uniform.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“And company.” Sherlock says, sweeping past him with John hurrying along behind him. The doorman’s got long legs, and manages to overtake Sherlock, keying in a series of passcodes to get them to the office of Sebastian Wilkes.

Or not. They actually just get left in the office of his secretary, which is right outside the office of Sebastian Wilkes, who apparently has the time (and the funds. Sherlock likes to make sure his time isn’t being wasted) to track down and call an avi detective with magical capabilities, but not enough to follow through on the appointment in a timely manner.

Half an hour later and John’s just as antsy as Sherlock- he never sits this long with company. His leg’s giggling and his thoughts are rattling around in his head. Some of them are getting repeated and most of them are random. None of them are actually sensical any more. Sherlock leans over and says to John:

“What do you see?” John stands up and looks through the glass walls and sees office workers pacing around. Sherlock stands with him. It’s a game.

“Some of them are magical,” John says, blue eyes cataloguing those he could get into a fight with.

“And the ones that aren’t?”

“Are intimidated by the ones that are.” Piss off the wrong magician, and you find yourself with a frog’s head and a donkey’s ass with the groin of a neutered kitten. Companies like this boast about big “equal-treatment” policies but completely ignore what happens after the work day. After all, it’s not on their clock, so…

“Good.” The single word of praise is nice. They do this for another thirty minutes, with John pointing things out and trying to prove it and Sherlock giving him ample reason for or against John each time. It keeps them busy- John with the people he’s learning to read and Sherlock with John.

“Sorry I’m late, Sherlock and…” Wilkes is thrown at the sight of John, looking like a stay-at-home dad but walking around with fucking Dracula himself.

“Riley.” John introduces himself, and strides forwards to shake Wilkes’ hand for a moment before stepping back to let Sherlock do his thing. He goes back to watching the people scurry around while keeping an ear trained on Sherlock and Sebastian.

Then he gets to watch Sherlock act like John as he pops up and down in different spots, staring at the painting, trying to figure out who and what and where and why. It’s funny to watch. After that, the case is a blur, from Sherlock leaving him outside a house to the pretty lady in the museum to the clues in a language John only vaguely recognizes.

Hours later, they find themselves in a train yard and John remembers to look up and oh, the sky. he gazes at what feels like possibility incarnate and just breathes in the night as Sherlock looks for clues.

“John! Check over there.” John goes, happy to help instead of just tag along. He sees a thingy. It’s all those little symbols from earlier, written in yellow and all over a rusted sheet of metal. He reaches out and sets his hand against it, trying to commit each to memory before turning and running.

“Sherlock! I found a thingy!” He says. He leads him back to the writing only to find it completely gone. Sherlock looks at John’s confusion and immediately decides to go home. He takes John by the elbow, hails a cab, and the two of them wait for Baker Street to arrive.

As they ride in silence, Sherlock can almost smell the shame coming of John. It takes less than a second before Sherlock decides that he’s going to figure out what John knows- what he thinks he imagined.

221B is like a hug as John and Sherlock steps inside and shuck coats and shoes. John goes to sit in his chair while Sherlock takes himself to the kitchen for tea. Fifteen minutes later, the both of them drink in silence.

“All right, come here.” Sherlock says into his cup, though his eyes are watching John. The minotaur gets up and comes to stand before the detective, wondering what he could possibly want from a delusional minotaur. Sherlock sets down his cup and stands.

“I don’t think you imagined anything. I think someone watched you see, and then went to cover it up,” John nods, apprehensive. Sherlock does not explain, usually. He just does. “This will be odd.”

The detective raises both hands and sets them on either side of John’s face, leaning closer as he does. His proud forehead nearly touches John’s as he breathes softly into his charge’s space.

His fingertips glow blue and they are bodiless for a moment. Suddenly the both of them are in the train yard. Their gaze shifts up, takes in the stars and spins around, gaze upward for a while before a call- Sherlock’s call- has his gaze down again and searching panels of metal. Together, the two of them see John’s feet, then more of the rusty cars.

There’s something yellow in their peripheral vision. Their head turns and, yes- there it is. Yellow writing all over the car. Their gaze moves, focusing intently on each little symbol before vision blurs and the sound of gravel being crunched increases.

As Sherlock’s silhouette comes into view, the world turns and blurs, blackens and softens until there’s nothing there. Then the two of them are back in their bodies again. John can’t stop himself from leaning forwards. Sherlock holds him there for a while.

“Good job, John. You’re brilliant to look at each one, you know.” He says softly as he carefully maneuvers the two of them down onto the floor until John’s limbs wake up again. It isn’t until after the effects of Sherlock’s spell should have worn off that the detective realizes that John doesn’t want to move- he’s perfectly happy like this.

With a muttered spell, their tea cups move and float over to them. Sherlock is content enough like this, too. He has data to process, and John is comfortable, after all.

 


	10. Desert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the tail end of the bank case, someone pushes John and John pushes back.

John doesn’t like fight rings- he’s been in and out of them for years now, and he really fucking hates fight rings. He’s going to one tonight, though, because he knows how someone can just… disappear into the system.

John paces and paces on the roof of their flat, the sun's calming effects doing nothing for his frantically beating heart. He’s in his utterly human form at the moment, and it feels as though that’s making it worse, really. The door to the stairway opens and Sherlock pops his dark curly head up over the door  jam.

“John, you don’t have to go, you know.” Sherlock debates simply taking off without him. He doesn’t like how agitated his minotaur is. He feels mildly guilty about going to somewhere John absolutely hates. He has a case, though, and he’s going to solve it.

“I want to go.” John’s striding towards Sherlock and joining him on the narrow stairs. As he passes him, Sherlock tries again.

“No, you don’t. You have an elevated heart rate. I can smell the fear on you. You’re pulling at your jumper like you want to switch forms, which only happens when you feel extremely irritated, uncomfortable, and/or cornered. You don’t want to go.” Blue human eyes turn and glare at Sherlock.

“I’ll not be a coward.” Then his feet are carrying him past Sherlock to hand the avi the long coat he wears, along with the scarf. Sherlock smiles. He’s quite resilient, his minotaur. Ah, well, no ditching John today.

The two of them step out of their flat and into the street. Sherlock hails them a cab, which is driven by a low-level witch. With a muttered spell, the cab lifts into the air and taxies them over the evening- lit cities, setting them down in some obscure part where the night falls early.

Sherlock pays, John mutters a thank you, and they both climb out. They walk the short distance to the colosseum and pay their way inside. John makes sure to stay close to Sherlock in the crushing crowd of spectators, most of which are low-level but decently paid magical entities. None of the high levels will be caught dead in the crowd, with the exception of Sherlock. There are, as John expected, no minotaurs.

They find themselves seats as near to the stage as is comfortable. The two watch as, with a great deal of eye catching bravado, a man in an old fashioned suit strides onto the stage. He’s wearing purple and black, his top hat sitting over a pale face. The long, purple innards of his coat tails twirl with latent magic as he spreads his white kid-gloved hands.

“LADIES AND GENTLENTITIES!” The crowd abruptly loses their volume, utterly captured by the stunning man with the goatee.

“TONIGHT, IN THIS FINE COLOSSEUM ARGATTI, WE HAVE OURSELVES A WONDERFUL NEW ADDITION TO THE STAGE! HAILING FROM THE DESERT AND JUST AS STRONG AND RARE, PLEASE, RISE TO YOUR FEET AND GIVE IT UP FOR… THE DESERT LOTUSES!” Sherlock and John, like good patrons, rise like everyone else and clap like they believe.

One by one, nine figures dance and undulate their way across the stage to the center. As one, they bow in a perfect circle, their mask covered faces do not hide their identity from John as it does from everyone else. When they sit down again, John leans into Sherlock almost casually.

“Those are the Desert Thorns.” A notoriously murderous group of desert dwellers that often attack whoever dares enter the sandy Deadlands. John’s people had often been paid to protect said travellers. The Desert Thorns are his sworn enemy.

“How do you know?”

“Their hands.” There are four fingers on each whispery hand; a trade mark John knows well, as many of his people often had a four fingered skeleton hand in their belongings; a symbol of both that minotaurs aptitude in battle and a mark of allegiance to the tribe and the tribe alone. John had one, a long time ago. It’s probably in the possessions of one of his family, now, as John has been presumed dead.

John leans until he’s sitting upright on the long stone bench again and focuses his attention on the Desert Lotuses. Two of them have moved to dance an odd dance. They start on the edge of the ring opposite each other. In time with the other, one takes a step with her right foot, her hips swiveling as the leg crosses her body, moving her to the left, with her partner opposite. She does this again, with the left foot this time, and her partner goes with her right.

When they reach each other in the center, the legs that lead slots perfectly together. A set of thin arms raise from hips to air before descending artfully to rest on the neck of the partner, who has run her hands up the other’s thighs to rest on hips. Flushed breasts to breasts, there is a moment of utter stillness, then the one with her hands on hips lifts the other up, throwing her into the air and spinning her body around until she falls in a glorious drop to wrap around her partner’s shoulders and weave all the way down her body.

As the dancer gains her feet again, they do the same back and forth that got them to the middle, except now their moving together, and the dancer facing backward is swinging her legs backward as well. As they exit the circle of light, the next act comes on. John is fuming though, and Sherlock finds that he cannot help but pay attention to his minotaur.

“Riley, what’s wrong?” Sherlock whispers quietly. John doesn’t answer, just fumes. Then they bring out the giant arrow.

“Can we have volunteers?” One of the Lotuses ask. She begins to scan the crowd, her gaze sweeping over the masses before she points to Sherlock.

“How about this gentlentity right here?” two of the Lotuses weave through the people to grasp Sherlock’s hands. He doesn’t want to go- wants to stay and figure out why the dance was such a personal insult to John, but… He gets up easily enough and lets himself be escorted to the stage. He’s led into the circle of light and directed to stand in front the arrow. Oh… well… this isn’t good.

Sherlock maintains his position, though. Good god, he needs to do something about this before he winds up dead. The arrow is aimed, and Sherlock prepares to move as the dancers dance around him. The arrow is shot and it moves too fast. sherlock wasn’t planning on it. It just barely strikes his diaphragm before it’s caught in all twelve fingers of the dancers.

As Sherlock is lead back to his seat, he begins to wonder if the bruise he can feel forming is a bit more than just a bruise. As he watches the rest of the show, his head begins to feel heavy, eyes begin to droop down towards the floor. He falls asleep on John’s shoulder. The weight of him brings John back from his trance.

The minotaur tries to wake Sherlock after the show is done. He doesn’t notice how quickly the stands clear, or how the dancers have crept up near him. He looks up when they are impossible to ignore.

“I wouldn’t move it I were you, love. After all, if you do, that snooping friend of yours gets it.” The arrow is aimed directly at John and Sherlock. Oh, they’re good, but John’s no stranger to this tactic. He can feel his minotauran form pulse underneath his skin, begging to be let out. He lets it.

“You would threaten the companion of a _Maurosu_?” he rumbles in his native tongue as he straightens up and turns from Sherlock. The dancers don’t move. They aren’t scared of one measly Maurosu who’s both out of his element and unknowing of the laws of the city.

“Yes.” John smiles as he looks at their silk clad faces.

“If you wish to fight like dogs,” his accent grows heavier with each word and his orifices begin to glow gold, “Then die like them, too!” He seems to explode in a flash of gold sunlight and in his place is an impressive monster. Horns arch back from his face, curving above the back of his neck. Blond dreadlocks fall to his knees, swinging and imbedded with spikes. Huge knots of muscle bulk out already large shoulders, and a thick neck holds a large, furred head. A flattened snout is the center, with large, liquid, blue eyes on either side and completed by a dark mouth.

Above the waist and below the head, he is furred, but humanoid in design. Below it, though, a long tail with a tuft of fur on the end waves behind him while strong, matching buffalo legs with massive hooves that are stronger than the stone he stands on give him an excellent sense of balance.

His hands, though, are different. Like the Desert Thorns, they are four fingered, but they are not delicate. They are thick and heavy; a set of hands long used to hardship. On the backs, old scars cut through dark brown fur. The palms are a single pad of calluses and scars, so meshed together that it’s hard to tell them apart.

He fills his great chest with air and charges the nearest Thorn, killing her with a single punch that caves her face in and shoves her nose back into her brain. He catches the arrow as it fires at him. Now armed, he presents an even greater deal of danger. He turns back to the rest, who have gained a sense of formation and now weave and dodge around him, trying to be faster. But he is John, of the Maurosu tribe, a desert guardian, and companion to Sherlock Holmes and _no one_ moves faster than he does.

He impales the second Thorn, caves the chest of the third and fourth, breaks the neck of the fifth and the spinal cord of the sixth, crushes the head of the seventh and eighth, and captures the ninth.

He holds her up by her neck and growls at her.

“Why are you here, Thorn?” She kicks her legs and scrambles in his grasp, all her grace shaken away in abject fear of this creature choking her. She claws poisonous nails down the backs of his hands but he just holds her, not at all caring. He squeezes tighter, and her mouth opens.

“H-h-hired!”

“By?”

“Th-th-the Black Lotus! I don’t know no more.” John can sense that she’s telling the truth. He crushes her windpipe in a single spasmodic movement. Then he takes the head of the arrow and cuts off every right hand, wrapping them in a waterproof bag he finds among their supplies. He looks to Sherlock, but he isn’t awake. Hmm.

With the bag over his shoulder, he stoops and picks up Sherlock, subtly making his way out of the colosseum and in the direction they came from. An hour later, he walks into the morgue (Molly lets him in the back way through an alley) and lays his friend on the examination table. He gives Molly a look.

“Please fix him.” Molly pointedly ignores the blood and the bag as she slips off her gloves and undoes Sherlock’s coat and shirt to reveal the deep bruise over his diaphragm. God, Sherlock, you never learn, do you?

 


	11. Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sleeps (until he's bored) and John remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late, but I didn't have anything when everything else went up.

Sherlock’s laying on his back, relieved of all garments above the waist. His middle is damaged and bandaged. His breath just barely moves that skinny chest. His wings are carefully folded against his back. Molly sits at her computer, typing quietly. The morgue is silent, for all intents and purposes.

John sits hunched over, head bowed, waiting. Not many survived a wound like this, when he was there to see it. But this is not the desert, and he had Molly’s help- her tools and her clever hands and her gentle touch provided the practice that John needed. Sherlock is not dead- merely deeply asleep, but John worries all the same. And he hates himself, in this instant and everyone since he came back to himself, for being so weak around his greatest enemy.

…

_It is the odd time in the desert when the temperature is between unbearables. It is when the sun has not quite risen and the monsters have not quite woken or fallen asleep. It is a rare moment of in between._

_A minotaur stands atop a dune, watching the eastern sun, relishing this moment of in between. Behind him is his tribe. Behind him is his father, his mother, and his sister. Behind him is his home. Ahead of him is his path. He wishes to run along it now, but he won’t. The time will come for him, but now is not it. Still, he wishes._

_He wraps his big four-fingered hands around himself as he stares. He can feel it now- a sense of dread deep in his chest that fails to leave. He returns to camp and collects his hammer. He wakes his people earlier than needed. He tells them to prepare. He is young, but he is also no fool. Today is a day of death._

_They run over the planes, more guarded then usual. They are headed for an oasis too many miles away, so the run is a hard one. They cannot afford another night without it, though. Their supplies are low, their babies hungry._

_At the back of the line, the minotaur, already apprehensive, looks behind him, only to see a rolling cloud of dust where there is no wind. He skids to a stop and straightens up, squinting in harsh daylight. Then he bursts into a full sprint towards them. He will not let death take his people like this. He will not let them go. Not today._

_He charges towards a Snarl- the thing kicking up dust- and attacks it head on. Its giant metal mouth has spinning fangs. It uses them to wildly bite at his broad, flat head. He swings his hammer and takes a few out, even as another gouges a deep gash in the heavy metal. He is a healer- meant to save lives. He is a minotaur- built to survive. He is a warrior- made to protect. He will not fall until the beast does. He will not die until his people are safe. He will not._

_An hour later, the Snarl is dead- a big pile of rent and twisted metal. The minotaur is no better. He is wounded, one of his arms an absolute useless appendage. He cannot hope to survive this. Even with the help of his people, he would catch infection soon enough- Snarl poison is nothing if not effective. So he makes himself move away- across the sands and away from his people. He goes until nightfall. He goes until he cannot walk any longer._

_When he next opens his eyes, it is not to desert stars, but to a metal roof. He moves his head, but there’s a collar around his neck. It makes a heavy metal chain rattle. Oh so carefully, he twists until he can see the burgundy and fuchsia color of the nomadic Desert Thorns. He knows, right then, even as he roars and roars for his family and his people, that he is going to die a slow and painful death._

…

John has a brown wooden box that Amber gave him. He carefully opens it and puts all the hand bones carefully inside. Then he stashes it underneath his bed. He turns and takes his human body down stairs so that he can make sure Sherlock actually sits still. He’s having a bad time of it.

“John! I’m fine.”

“Are not.” John retorts shortly and puts the kettle on while Sherlock turns to glare at him.

“How would you know?” John narrows his eyes at him, now a little angry.

“I’m rusty, not ignorant. Kindly remember that.” He goes silent again, ignoring sherlock’s constant shouts of “bored!” until the detective gets the hint.

“Now you get offended!”

“Yes. Now I get offended.” Sherlock glares at him.

“Amuse me.”

“Eat food.”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“You’re no fun anymore.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Tell me about the Desert Thorns.” John ignores him until the pot screams and Sherlock has tea steeping next to him.

“They are an ancient people, but they are not indigenous to the desert. Instead, they hail from far North- the Islignali wasteland. Originally, a war with their own people cast them out, and they came here, hoping for peace, but, at the insistence of both sides, created a war instead.

“My how-ever-many-greats grandfather, Sali the Bold, was one of the few minotaurs who survived the war. He lost what family was left to him after the Great Sickness. The Desert Thorns-”

“Wait. Tell me about your grandfather.”

“He wandered alone for many years, and became a great healer, well versed in every species. He began to heal the minotaurs he crossed paths with, which was steadily more often. It wasn’t until he met an aging woman of the same profession some years after the war did he even have hope of a family. In turn, he had a daughter that grew up amongst the scrimmaging of our people. She watched her mother- Cactus- be cut down, and in revenge killed the Thorn that did it.

As a reminder to herself, she cut off the hand the Thorn used to kill with, stripped the bones of flesh, bleached them in the sun and with the help of potions, and then made a necklace of them. The tradition’s been passed on ever since.” He looks at his hands- so much smaller than they were. He looks and stays silent about his own reasons. He is unaware that the avi across from his can see them anyways.

 


	12. To Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attempts to interrupt John's nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who's been reading this as I update should know that I've done some editing, so the story runs much smoother than it did before.

“John!” Sherlock hollers as he bursts out onto the roof, excited about something. There is no sound, though. It takes Sherlock less than a second to locate his minotaur. He’s taken his true form (something he’s been doing ever since Sherlock set up that spell that hides everything up here from every kind of view) and is semi curled on his side, sleeping. His fuzzy ears twitch against his skull every so often, as does his muzzle.

“Maybe later,” John says sleepily. Sherlock cannot bring himself to truly wake up his obviously content flatmate and drag him outside just yet. Hmm. His case will keep for a few more hours. Besides, this sun feels good.

He ducks back down inside the flat and takes off his coat and scarf before he goes back to his room to take off everything but his slacks. Then he goes back to the roof and lies down a ways away from John. Carefully, he stretches great black wings up over his head in a long, luxurious stretch and settles them back against the regularly cleaned rooftop. He understands why John does this. Really. This feels amazing. It definitely does. This is how they are found, sometime in the late afternoon, by Mycroft.

“I thought you two were going south,” he says, slightly amused that his little brother is somehow brought to rest by a minotaur.

“We are. Later.” Sherlock says, clearly ready to stay exactly where he is.

“You look like you’re going to stay here until it gets dark.” Mycroft crouches on his feet and brushes two fingers over Sherlock’s pinfeathers. He barely shifts it away- a true indicator of how relaxed he is.

“Go away, Mycroft. I’m busy.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock opens his eyes and lifts his head.

“I said-”

“GO AWAY,” John roars, instantly awakened by Sherlock’s quick mood change. He’s up on his feet in a second, attacking. This is the guy who put him in a box again. This is the guy who tried to bribe him with tea. This is the fucker who’s bad.

He surges forwards, mouth open in a snarl, his big hand in a fist. He grasps Mycroft in one hand and swings his fleshy hammer with the other.

Sherlock just barely gets there in time to stop John from breaking every rib he comes into contact with. As much as Sherlock wants to let John do it, the minotaur is not playing around. He can and will kill Mycroft on the first shot- not the second. Not the third. Killing the Arcan Government is just not an option here.

“Riley! It’s alright.” John stares into Sherlock’s eyes for a moment. He’s jumped in the path of John’s trajectory. The minotaur, with reflexes hardened through years and years of their necessity, slowed the speed. Now the avi is gripping it, knuckles turned white at holding himself up.

“NO IT’S NOT!” John growls, low and tense. Mycroft wisely does not cast a single spell in his defense.

“Yes, it is. I wouldn’t lie to you about that.” John waits a moment longer before tossing Mycroft backwards, out of his grasp. The other avi spreads copper wings that pump once before setting himself down and sorting himself out. John carefully lowers his flatmate to the ground.

“He’s not supposed to be here.”

“I know, Riley. Let me handle it, okay?” It doesn’t do to leave a massive, deadly minotaur unsure and tense, so Sherlock does his best to talk him down.

“Okay.” Sherlock smiles at John before half turning to regard Mycroft with a deadly glare.

“I'll speak with you later, brother.” Mycroft offers a thin smile.

“Until next time, then.” He spreads huge wings and takes off, sipping through the air under a muttered invisibility spell. John draws close and rests a broad head on Sherlock’s shoulder. He raises a hand and gently rubs at the fur he finds.

“Up for a case?”

…

Because of Arcan’s position, to the north of it is the Deadlands and to the south are the icelands. But that’s very far south. Roughly halfway between the icelands and Arcan are rolling lands that reach nearly freezing temperatures during summer nights and is constantly besetted by fog and mist.

The land is broken up by short wooden fences that turn the hills and valleys into a bumpy patchwork quilt. Within the squares are sometimes cows and rabbits, goats and horses, great manor houses and, in a particularly large square, a town.

It is here that John and Sherlock arrive late in the evening of the next day. Their train rolls up quietly and perfunctorily to a lonely platform, it’s sleek hydro-engine slowing down. Sherlock and John exit the long, silver beast, a bag in each hand, looking around for their guide.

Miss Mortimer is five minutes late. She hops out of rover in combat pants and a thick button down rolled up to the sleeves. Quickly, her booted feet mount the stairs to the wooden platform. She strides up to the two gentlemen and stops roughly five feet away.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“And company.” The detective says. Beside him, John is silent, watching what smells like an incubus or a very specialized telepath watch him. Hmm. She can probably smell the displacement on him.

“Very well, then. Come, the inn’s waitin’ for you… but we’ll have to arrange for another room, I think,” she says.

“That’s quite alright. Just extra blankets will do.” Sherlock answers. John hardly uses his bed, as most of his sleeping is either done on the rooftop or in Sherlock’s presence in the livingroom. He’ll not want his own bed now. Miss Mortimer gives them a subtle look that Sherlock sees clearly. He doesn’t correct the inevitable conclusion that they are lovers. It will cut out the fiasco that will most certainly happen when they figure out that John, being a minotaur, doesn’t do well when sleeping on his own. It’s a good way to get yourself killed in the desert.

John quietly gets into the back of the rover, next to all four bags, while Sherlock gets in the front.

“So what are you two doin’ here in Whuthering?” She asks, voice light. That’s not what her body’s saying though.

“Oh, just business,” Sherlock answers casually. Nice try. You might want to go a bit harder at that one.

“Not many people have business here.” Again, too light.

“Not many people are so obvious in their attractions,” Sherlock points out dryly. Really. If she’s going to steal covert glances at Sherlock, she should do so without letting him know.

“Oh! Uh…” Her light chatter broken to bits by Sherlock’s easy rebuttal. John says nothing.

They travel along an old gravel road with sparse weeds poking up through the rocks until the town rolls into view.

“Here we are: Whuthering, Straights.” Sherlock hums at her in response. The town looks like something from roughly seventy years ago, when Eminem was still alive. Old, but alive. Simple buildings rise out of a three foot mist. The fronts are straight, the roofs sloping away, the facades simple and nothing is more than three stories. Most are one or two.

She pulls the rover up and parks it in front of a three story building.

“I hope you two like your vegetables- this diner’s vegan.”

“I know.” Sherlock says as Miss Mortimer pulls the rover to a practiced stop and the detective slides out. John gets out after him and, together, they haul their bags inside. Sherlock does the checking in, not bothering to tell John why people are looking at him strangely.

John does not give a fuck if anyone thinks he’s odd.

They head up to a large, one bed bedroom and begin to unpack.

“What are we doing after this?”

“We’re going to see a man about a dog.” Sherlock says. He can feel the adrenaline starting to build up in his body. He goes to the window and opens the curtains, applying a protective seal to every entry and exit.

Magic mysteries, after all, are the funnest mysteries.

 


	13. House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally reach House Baskerville.

Baskerville: the phantom of Wuthering and every child’s nightmare around these parts. It’s not that its purpose is particularly nefarious on paper, but having a House so near to a town tends to cause a bit of fear. Even though the humans have some kind of survival ability to compete with the magical creatures all around them, a House is no normal competitor.

Some humans, like their cabbie from the night they met the Desert Thorns, are witches or warlocks (Sherlock, though an avi, is the latter of these). Others, mainly those who need the press and feel of people living all around them (not found in the first option), choose not to profess any magical talent and instead seek entrance to one of the many species of pack entities that have a way to accept new members: werewolves, vampires, some species of fae, etc.

These packs can get huge, and so, upon reaching an unmanageable size, often have a home base with a handful of pockets of wandering, or merely urban dwelling, children. The House Baskerville is one such place, and is the heart and home of the Baldacci clan of vampires, most of which hail from Arcan or Sunan, its distant sister city. Supposedly, it also has a demographic that comes from Arnan, in the far north, past the wasteland Isignali.

According to one of the town's humans, there’s an arm of the Baldacci clan that is apparently performing some kind of Blood Ritual, which have been banned since the birth of the Golem, some two hundred years ago, on the more innocent of Baskerville’s population. This has, or so rumor has it, infested the valley with wraiths, or giant mist-hounds just a step away from a demon. These wraiths are rather strong and very restless, as they apparently wander the empty streets at night and, while unable to enter protected buildings, cannot be exorcised.

Today, Sherlock and John are to meet one of the Baldacci’s Order- the governing body all large vampiric Houses have. Sherlock is, of course, excited- Order vampires are rarely seen but always heard, and their influence is vast. John is not.

“John, what’s the matter?” Sherlock knows what’s the matter, but if he says things that are beyond what John thought he’d know in situations like this, it’ll upset him further.

“I don’t like Houses.”

“Is it just vampiric Houses or is it ever kind?”

“Vampires love bloodsport.” John says lowly as he continues pacing. The anxiety rolls off him in waves. He’ll still go, though, and Sherlock knows it. The detective smiles and goes into the inside pocket of his coat. He removes from it a long silver chain. Attached to it is a small diamond with a silver tint to it- the mark of Sherlock’s magic is mostly silver, though some of his spells glow blue.

“Here. It’ll stop them from smelling your blood.” Sherlock slips it over John’s head. The minotaur holds it in his hand for a moment before smiling at him broadly in a moment of happiness and gratefulness that only Sherlock gets to see.

“Shall we then?” The detective says. John carefully tucks the pendant under his clothing, next to his skin, the flat tear drop shape making its existence unnoticeable.

“Yes.” They make their way downstairs, where they’re regaled with coffee and eggs and definitely not meat for a bit while Sherlock impatiently tries to get to the door. The townspeople will be heard, though. It takes half an hour to wade through old wives’ tales and warnings about House Baskerville and it’s indwelling Clan Baldacci.

…

An hour later, they have successfully managed to get the rover up the rocky, inhospitable road to House Baskerville. All at once, dangerous rock and mean terrain gives way to a stately paved drive lined with evergreens and unbloomed flowers, resting beneath the snow. The wrought iron gate impedes their progress, though Sherlock can clearly see their path.

A vampire with a honey tint to his skin is waiting on the other side of the gate. Sherlock gets out of the rover, as does John. They approach the gate. Sherlock locks eyes with the vampire. To those who aren’t used to it, and, indeed, a great deal who are, Sherlock’s gaze is extremely hard to look away from. When one does manage it, it’s often far too early or late. This vampire has an equally mesmeric gaze.

For a moment, they just stand there, stock still, amber on silver against a reserved sky and a cold temperature.

“Sherlock Holmes and Riley Watson?” The stranger says eventually. Though the day is cold, he merely wears a thin and well tailored three-piece suit, sans jacket. He has piercings in the lobe of each ear, which Sherlock immediately understands are connected with the magical properties he possessed before changing from human (warlock? Sherlock thinks so. John can smell it on him, as well) to vampire. He’s retained the abilities, though many lose theirs.

“Yes.”

“Do come in.” Sherlock and John get back in the rover. The gate opens of its own accord, and the vampire runs with them as Sherlock slowly navigates the stately, if reserved, drive. It does not do to go quickly in a vampire’s House.

Sherlock parks the rover the two occupants vacate it. The great doors rumored to crown every House’s facade is absent here. The walls are of cement, the windows of metal. Magic seals are on every window and woven into every material.

The Houses of old- the secret ones no one knew of until after the War- were regal and made to give people a reason to stay away on its own. No one goes onto a rich man’s property, after all. Now, though, the Houses are made to withstand war and protect it’s children. They aren’t mansions, they are strongholds and it shows. The House Baskerville is nothing short of a fortress.

It is cold and dark inside the House- why light when you don’t need it? Why heat when you don’t freeze? Though there is light shed by hanging mason jars at wide intervals give Sherlock just enough light to see by. John, being a minotaur, does not need light, either, and so does not flinch at the influx of darkness.

The vampire guides them through the large space and through smaller and smaller halls until they come along what is no doubt a residential area. Sherlock can tell it’s less used- less traversed- than any other part of the house. The doors here are heavily magicked. When a vampire is vulnerable, you can best believe it’s in the safest place possible. White kid gloves knock softly on one of the doors.

A voice is mangled by the door, leaving it an unintelligible subvocal hum. It is the permission the vampire is looking for. He turns the door knob and holds the door open for Sherlock and John to pass through. Then, he leaves with its closing.

The room they’ve been left in is lovely, but spartan in design. A set of three low divans grace the other end of the sizable room and is accompanied by an equally low coffee table. closer to the two companions are two armchairs and a regular sized couch graced with end tables.

Separating the two is a large, spotless metal table strewn with mechanical parts and tools. Little bionic insects and automatonic men in various stages of production (or deconstruction) are apparently the result of this tinkering. Lining the edges of the room are the book shelves.

The room has been well-lit for their arrival. Sherlock can easily pick out titles from every point of time. A volume called Poor Richard’s Almanac has made its home alongside A Guide Magic: vol. 1-9. He can see fictional books, too, like Jane Eyre, The Silence of the Lambs, and Drop among dozens of others of equally varied subjects. It looks a great deal like Sherlock’s book shelves.

The door at the end of the room opens and through it steps a tall vampire. He is stereotypically beautiful in a vampire’s way: pale skin, dark hair, dark suit, immaculately dressed, and extremely easy on the eyes. So much so that he’s magnetic.

“Good evening,” the vampire says. He strides around the divans, the tables, and the couches. He extends a hand, and Sherlock accepts it. For a moment, pale blue meets silver.

“Gabriel Baldacci?”

“The one and only.” Sherlock smiles a wane smile.

“I’m told that there’s blood rituals being performed in the House Baskerville.”

“Please, sit.” John and Sherlock both sit on the couch, while Gabriel takes a seat in one of the armchairs. He does not speak for a moment. A knock sounds at the door. Gabriel bids it open, and a pot of hot water along with two teabags, sugar, and creamer are brought in by a different vampire than the one who showed them the door.

When the tea has been set to steep, Gabriel continues.

“The Baldacci clan holds the same views on blood rituals that all others do. If they are going on within House Baskerville, then you have my word it will be found.” Sherlock smiles.

“A hung like this will take far too long. I was thinking of a way to speed the process along.” Gabriel spreads both large, graceful hands.

“Lets hear it, then.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of description in this one! Let me know what you think!


	14. Hounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sends John on a mission.

“Well, that was informational,” Elizan says glibly as he glances at John. Really, he had no idea. His eyes shine darkly. He could have fun with a minotaur. His eyes also catch on the warlock betwixt the two. He’s got eyes that could kill, Elizan senses. Literally.

“So it was.” Sherlock says as he and John head to the car.

“We’ll be back.” He says. John does not hesitate to get in as well. He’s not about to stick around a damn House. He suddenly misses the desert.

Desert territory is survival of the fittest, period. If you get killed out there, you get killed. You could attack anyone at anytime. As long as you came out on top, you didn’t have to worry about it. No one had House or Coven protection. It doesn’t exist, when things like Snarls twist and pivot their entire bodies like great snakes across the sands and the Desert Thorns travel fast and could happen upon you at any time.

John is lost in thoughts- thoughts about snarls and gangs and stars and, most importantly, his family- when Sherlock speaks.

“Those hounds were irregular.” Sherlock switches from using the actual term- wraiths- in exchange for their semi-solid forms- hounds. It’s a good way not to call them to you. Plus, since none of the town’s inhabitants (with the exception of Henry Knight) have ever stumbled across the shape the wraiths take, it’ll keep them away from Sherlock. They already think he’s odd. It’s been chalked up to him being a warlock and warlocks do strange things.

“I know.” John says. He’s seen blood ritual creations before- great Golems that charge across the sands they were made from, the transformed and sickly looking reincarnations of low-level entities, zombies- John has seen it all. He might be unfamiliar with the city and its workings, but he is not naive. He recognizes a blood ritual creation when he sees one, and that’s not it.

“How do you feel about speaking to Henry for me?” Sherlock is a warlock, and magically/ biologically wired to go it alone. Combined with his natural personality, which has a high content of acid in it, he really isn’t cut out for talking to the near delusional, half mad resident warlock.

John, for his part, turns and looks out the window, thinking. He shifted back quite some time ago, so the car is a rather comfortable place to do that. How does he feel about it? Not every warlock is like Sherlock. Their personalities and their natural antisocial tendencies can turn them into crotchety old men when joined by another for more than a few moments.

That’s not to say that Sherlock has a high tolerance for company, either. Sometimes, he won’t speak for days as he does something like make a complicated, highly intricate amulet or clean something out that he calls his “mind palace”. When John tries to sit with him or bring him tea, he generally gets snapped at. Sherlock actually cast an invisibility spell one time. John was mad at him for days after. It doesn’t bother him, though- what did one expect when one stuck a pack creature with a solitary one?

Maybe Henry just needs a hug, John thought. All he’s got near him are his staff and the incubus that sometimes goes over to calm his nightmares and talk him through the occasional delusion. Those, however, are getting stronger as it goes. He does seem rather nice- yeah, a little underfed and mentally strained and more than a bit paranoid- but he does seem nice. John shrugs.

“Okay.”

…

“It keeps happening!” Henry finally snaps at John. They’re sitting outside his home, John perched on a garden wall and Henry, who for a few minutes had done the same in a jittery fashion, had hopped down to pace and pace.

“What all happens?” John’s picked up that Henry is being ignored by the townspeople.

“They can’t be warded against! They just waltz into my house and my bedroom and my dreams like they belong there! Then they play around with everything and I can’t take it!”

“Do you know how they get in?” Henry’s bottom lip curls.

“If I knew how they would not be getting in.” Typical warlock, assuming that just because John doesn’t know means that he’s stupid or inferior. Honestly.

“I may be misreading the situation, but it looks like you’re in no place to scoff, Mr. Knight.” Henry seems to abruptly remember why there’s a frumpy looking human on his bench and goes back to pacing.

“The townspeople ward their houses every night,” John goes on, “and they truly believe that the wraiths can be held back.” John watches as his hand starts to play with the hair on the back of his neck, manipulating the copper strands. John, of course, has already guessed that Henry is the target, and that this whole set up about blood rituals and wraiths is just a cover. Plenty of men have gone mad when wraiths come, after all.

Of course, there is always the next thought in the chain. If Henry is the target, then there has to be a reason. If there’s a reason, then Sherlock either has to deduce it or Henry, himself, has to show them.  Sherlock asked John to see what he could find. This seems significant.

“Well, then, they’re making it up! Or… or they’re not important. Yes!” Henry half crows, half sobs. He seems to be following John’s thought process. “They aren’t important! They don’t have enemies! They don’t have a need to do things or say things that are noticeable!”

“So what did you do?” John asks directly. Then the sneer is back. John almost walks off. He promised he stay and figure out what he could for Sherlock, though, even if warlocks are a solitary, imperial bunch.

“I didn’t do anything! I haven’t seen another warlock besides that friend of yours in months, and the ones that I have seen were either too weak and/or never had enough of a problem with me to seek revenge like this.” Henry’s reminder causes his sneer to drop then, his pasty, too-thin face seems to be unable to hold up his normal personality and his current state of perpetual distress and no small amount of fear.

“Maybe not, but someone did. Think for me, yeah? Who made someone mad?” Henry gets distracted as his pacing gets more frantic. John settles down to wait. He can take his time. He’s got all night.

…

At nine in the evening, Henry Knight has an odd dream. John, who has agreed to spend the night with him, lets it happen. He’s got an idea. As John watches Henry destroy his room, the walls seem to cry white smoke.

It swirls around the room and amasses into the hounds from the hollow. They snuffle around the room, unlock the door, and basically go about different things. The entire time, Henry tosses and turns in his sleep.

They invade my dreams, he said earlier. So they do.

 


	15. Entities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John does his part for the case.

John closes his eyes briefly and they remain that way. Minotaurs are a hardy race, accustomed to traveling magically haunted sands. A minotaur would not last long without a Third Eye. John just so happens to be experienced enough that he can open all three at the same time. It provides him with the reality and surreality most can’t take at the same time.

Like this, with a gold eye glowing in the middle of his forehead, it appears as though he’s seeing double. In the first vision, the hounds are as they were before- misty white apparitions snuffling around all that moves and all that doesn’t. The walls are dark in the half moon sky. The shadows thrown by open curtains are deep and sharp, covering more space than the light does. In the second, it all glows.

The hounds are a fiery molten lava. An infinite amount of reds, oranges, and yellows twirling and dancing. Everything they touch leaves a bit of this. Henry’s room is covered in bright now paw prints and faded ones. Some of them are a few months old.

Henry, too, has essence all over the place. Where the first aura is not, the second aura shines through, lighting up everything and tinging the air an orange color, the same as Henry’s hair. Oddly enough, all of Henry’s aura is old where his bed is. Of course. Because he’s being haunted.

Whoever is doing the haunting has a fiery red aura. It covers the entirety of Henry’s bed, taking charge the moment he falls asleep and… well then. Henry is the one giving off the red aura, which means that he’s been inhabited, his body shared with an apparition that only comes to him when his mind is most vulnerable- when he’s in the clutches of exhausted paranoia or flat out asleep. Genius, really.

John senses that these hounds that nuzzle around the floor and move furniture (blood ritual wraiths can only touch what lives and sometimes only their target, if they are weak enough) are just the start. They have begun to grow restless.

They knock things off the side tables and disrupt papers on Henry’s desk. They move his chairs and topple one of them over. One hound snuffles at his sheets, chewing holes in the loose, wavy material. Another relieves him of his blanket.  Yet more relieve him of his blankets to sniff at his feet. A gentle gnawing leaves little specks of blood round his ankles and lower calves.

Above all, their sound and speed rise as the air slowly darkens in his Third Eye. The coppery touch of Henry’s aura is slowly being turned red. From Henry’s bed, the sniffling and crying and twisting has become violent .

Quite suddenly, Henry rolls over and in his place is a red entity. He sits up and swings his legs over the bed. The man’s dressed in a nicely pressed suit. John can tell from the man’s face and build who it may be. For now, Henry’s motions just still. Silently, John rises.

His little charm protects him from drawing attention as he follows the entity down the hall. Presently, a flight of stairs and two long hallways later, the entity opens the door with his glowing red hand (misty in reality) to let himself into a bedroom. It’s decorated in an old victorian manor. Every inch of it is ornate and lovely.

As the entity inspects the room, John does as well. A delicate jewelry box sits at the vanity near make up that was never put away. In it are a classic set of pearls (necklace, bracelet, and earrings) along with other simple yet exquisite pieces. Garnets set in dark silver metal. Emeralds in white gold. Topaz in light silver. In the closet are dresses of the same style. Very well done, simply designed. The woman who wore these things must have been an aging debutante.

The man that lived here would have been a perfect counterpart. An electric razor (for hair) sits unplugged in the bathroom. Shaving cream and aftershave is stored in the cupboard to the farthest corner of the bathroom, which is divided, so that there are separate alcoves for the double sink, shower, and king sized tub.

Tasteful cologne is stored there as well, versus the little vials of accompanying perfume on the vanity. In the closet are mostly suits. Some polos, a few free standing slacks, fancy shoes make their home in the closet as well. On the left side is the man’s things, including what looked like a low shelf of several low-maintenance warlock’s tools.

The woman gets the right side, and judging from what she has, the woman was a witch. John watches in fascination as the red entity examines all this at his leisure, getting his red aura all over the burgundy and green that was left here. Yes, left, as in dead. Everything not covered in white plastic has an inch of dust. No one has been in here in a long time, but the entity goes over all of it without ever once disturbing the dust.

John realizes that the burgundy aura may be that color from age, and that if Henry’s dad, who had a red aura, were to ever come back, he would look like the man currently inhabiting this abandoned room.

John follows the dead man oh so quietly, thinking.

If this is Henry’s dad, then why is he haunting Henry?

What did Henry do, if anything?

Maybe he didn’t. But someone did. Someone who’s still alive, because there is a really good reason why Henry’s father is using his son for a bridge between the living and the dead. But who is he trying to look for? If it were Henry, the ghost would be where it would be seen. It would be where Henry couldn’t miss it.

So why is the ghost here, if it’s not Henry? John thinks a moment to cross out any towns people. There’s only one kind of barrier that keeps a ghost out- a barrier created by the collective powers of pack species, namely werewolves and, lo and behold, vampires. John makes a note to ask Henry of any vampires his father knew. One of them is responsible for Henry’s father’s midnight walkings.

Speaking of walking. John follows the ghost- because that’s what in his Third Eye- out of the bedroom. Now that he’s thinking of it, the mist, the hounds, the utter oddness they ran into earlier today makes sense. The closest thing to a physical form a ghost can get without having to share is a cloud-like manifestation that can only partially take form and often cannot move objects, as will is absent in most cases. This, though, is a man out for a purpose. He has will a plenty.

John follows him as he opens the sliding door to Henry’s expansive two story house and follows him as he wanders back to the mists of Dewer’s Hollow. The Hollow swirls around the cloud in his reality vision, building him up more. With so much naturally occurring mist to fuel this ghost’s manifestation, every sense the warlock once had awakens once more with the stronger form. He’s so strong, in fact, that he and the hounds sense John’s presence.   
In the early house of the morning, John nods to the ghost and makes his way back to where he came, calmly locking the door behind him (he left it open last time) and retakes his place in his chair. He closes his reality eyes but keeps the Third one open. He’ll need to watch for the return of the father.

Just has John begins to fall asleep (the sky is pinkening in preparation for the sun's appearance) the room glows red so brightly that John’s Third eye would be blinded, had it been any other eye.

Henry bolts upright in bed. He looks around wildly, his short, stocky frame covered in sweat and fear still dilating his pupils. His mouth opens as breath ghosts over a short copper beard. He clamors out of bed and out of his pajamas. He’s dressed before he realizes that he asked John to stay the night. By then, the eye Henry doesn’t know of is gone.

“YOU! You let me suffer! The whole night, I dreamt of the moors and the vampires. All night! I dreamt of old men screaming and the House Baskerville burning! And you let it happen! Henry’s voice, strained by the tossing and turning and moaning and screaming he did in the night, is more than a little rough. The shrill tone is not helping. John does what he was taught to do, a long time ago.

He stands and walks off, Henry stalking behind him, shouting abuse and spewing the anger his fear has morphed and disguised itself as. He doesn’t even notice that John is doing things to his kitchen.

He is not calmed down until John pushes him into a chair and smacks a plate of eggs and bacon on the table before retrieving a cup of coffee for him (tea for John, thanks). For a moment he stares at the food. Then at John. Then at the food.

“Where did this come from?”

“Magic.” John says, only half joking. In all honestly, he does feel bad, but the fastest way to stop is to let it happen and observe. He can help Henry later- after Sherlock has what he needs to proceed.

Henry eventually looses his tension and anger as he devours what John has set before him. John gets him more and more. It isn’t until the whole thing is gone that Henry remembers he’s mad.

“Why did you let me sit there?” His voice is sad- almost to the point of broken. John thinks that this isn’t the first time someone has “left him there”.

“I needed to see what happens. Henry nods. Of course John needs to see what happens. He has to fix it somehow. He needs ideas.

A low sigh hums out of the exhausted warlock’s mouth. John tilts his hair.

“If you like, you can sleep now. I’ll stay with you and make sure you come to no harm.” Henry seems to hesitate, but he’s too sleep deprived as it is (manifesting oneself through another is no easy feat, and eats up all his energy every night) to refuse the idea of a dream free rest.

Henry rises and takes his plate to the sink. He then heads out to the sitting room with the biggest, most comfortable couch. He lays down on it. John sits above his head. On instinct, he runs his fingers through Henry’s hair. He’s out in minutes.

Soon enough, John senses something. He opens his Third eye to look up at Henry’s dead father, dwelling in the doorway, ready to rest. John raises his chin.

“Don’t even think about it.” The ghost will not pass from physicality today. Not while John sits with his hand on Henry’s head, watching over the half-mad warlock. The ghost will have to retreat to his hollow, if he wishes to disappear from sight. After a few moments, that’s exactly what he does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news: I won't be able to update as regularly or as often (probably).


	16. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks. He's also apprehended by John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, this is what I have to post. I'll get the rest up ASAP. Thanks for the support, guys.

“What’s his father doing back from the dead?” Sherlock wonders out loud as he paces their rooms. John doesn’t answer, preferring instead to play with the little pendant Sherlock gave him.

“There’s no set reason for the return of a ghost. I’ve had cases where they’re just bored,” Sherlock goes on, almost oblivious to John’s presence. The minotaur turns over and curls up. He didn’t sleep last night, what with Henry and all. He thinks he’ll take a nap. Sherlock will doubtlessly have more errands for him  when the sun is down.

“But if the father’s back, where the hell is the mum?” John squeezes his eyes shut.

“Maybe she’s-”

“SLEEPING.” John says. Sherlock stops and looks at him.

“Just because you want to sleep doesn’t mean that you can just interrupt like that.” John rises and stalks right up to him.

“I’ve spent the past twenty four hours with an unstable wizard AND I went to the House with you AND I’ve been guarding against the ghost you’re oh- so- noisily talking about so if I want a little quiet to sleep before you have some other thing for me to do, I will get it.”

“Says who?” John’s eyes narrow before he shifts up into his minotauran form so fast that Sherlock doesn’t have time to react before he’s being pulled onto the bed and tucked against John’s chest. Sherlock struggles against it.

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” Sherlock falls still. It’s no use arguing with John like this. Besides, he hasn’t slept either.

…

Come evening, the both of them are driving out to the moor. The car bounces a bit as they draw close to Dewer’s Hollow. John and Sherlock stop and embark when they are a hundred yards off.

Now that they know what the actual cause of Henry’s haunting is, they just need to see why this ghost is powerful enough to inhabit mist, but weak enough to need a living creature all the same.

“I think Elizan has something to do with this.” Sherlock muses as he and his partner wade through ever thickening fog.

“I’d agree, but I may be biased.” Sherlock smiles at that. John doesn’t often joke, but it’s usually worth the wait when he does.

“It’s the knife. Where did he get a knife like that?” John can tell by Sherlock’s tone of voice that he doesn’t expect an answer. Sometimes he does, just so he can block it out.

“Anywhere,” he goes on, “where ancient entities gather. If he has someone’s favor, it makes sense for him to have a knife that cuts through wraiths.” Dewer’s hollow is still fifty yards off.

“But not one that goes through irregular ghosts. It’s like he planned it.” Sherlock’s gotten quieter, no longer invested in making sure John can hear him. John can tell he’s about to get sucked into his thoughts.

“He seemed to know exactly what was going to happen the entire time, like he expected this. He was tense, too, as much as a vampire will allow himself to be. The secret lies with Elizan,” Sherlock concludes. John nods.

“Or, at least, the next step does,” Sherlock adds on after. He turns to John.

“How do you know this is going to work?”

“He was a warlock, and a powerful one. He’ll recognize me.” John said. Sherlock had agreed to the plan John had for him when they had both woken up as the bottom of the sun touched the horizon. He seemed to trust John, and didn’t bother to ask the minotaur why he’d thought he could simply approach the ghost of Henry’s father and not be attacked.

Sherlock shrugged. He hasn’t been able to get a word out of the late Miles Knight. Not in the entire time they’ve been here. Sherlock has been back to the Hollow twice in the time that John spent with Henry and once more before. If John can get them past the original defences, than trust him Sherlock will.

When they get there, the great rolling clouds shape themselves into hounds once more. The circle and sniff at Sherlock’s shoes and John’s hooves. Like John said, they don’t attack. They simply wait. John steps forwards and kneels down on his great hooves, allowing himself to be sniffed from furry head to toe.

He seems to glow for a moment, before the shape of a man swirls and coalesces together. John stands again.

“Hullo, Mr. Knight.” The old man’s unsubstantial face crinkles into a smile.

“I have yet to know your name.”

“Riley.” John says easily. The ghost doesn’t seem to believe him.

“Very well. What brings to here?”

“The same thing that brings you.” The ghost’s face twists into a frown.

“But you don’t know why I’m here.”

“No,” Sherlock says, “but we’re trying.” The man’s face crinkles into a good natured smile again, misty laugh lines appearing.

“I suppose that’s all anyone can ask for, ‘specially a dead man. I was workin’ on this spell, kiddies. It was a dangerous spell- not the kind for young warlocks or old dictators,” Miles Knight says. He seems to be caught in the air he liked best- that of a genial, kind warlock. From the rumors and memories Sherlock’s been collecting, the man had a temper on him, though it wasn’t easily freed.

“So I’m almost finished with it, right? And I think to myself, this shouldn’t exist,” Sherlock nods. Mr. Knight is right, of course. Some spells should not even be conceptualized, let alone brought into existence. It’s why he never talks spellwork with anyone. The moment someone realizes how good he is at coming up with new things- not just old difficulty- he’ll be dog meat to the greedy and the ambitious.

“I think, ‘I have to destroy it.’ I can’t let it get out, especially to the House. Next thing I know, I’m wakin up, and the missus is next to me, tellin’ me that I ain’t goin’ back. Well, I haven’t destroyed the spell, so I have to come back. She says stay, I tell her I’ll see her when I can. We had a righteous fight over that ‘un. She was mad, because she been cold in the grave and cold in the bed for a solid decade, says she doesn’t want to be alone anymore. Woman damn near ripped my heart out. I had to come back, though, because I’m leaving’ a son behind, and he’ll probably live until old age. Can’t have him living with my mistake like that. Lord knows he’s got plenty of my other ones. Been working’ up the energy for touch ever since.” The man finishes finally. He seems to take breaths that don’t help anymore. He looks at John, then at Sherlock. The other warlock’s eyes have begun to glitter with a wicked little plan.

“What if I can get you to that spell?” The dead man glares.

“And how do I know you’re not going to steal it?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“You can feel my power. If I was interested in dangerous spells, I would have just made my own, not otherworldly worry needed, thank you.” The ghost’s nose curls up.

“Now, don’t get snappy. I never know with you young ones. Shit, you could be fakin’ your power and be dumb as a rock and I wouldn’t be able to tell.” Sherlock pulls off a glove and holds out a hand.

“See for yourself.” The ghost clamps on after  a moment’s hesitation. Silver explodes in John’s eyes.

 


	17. The Last of the Hounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the hounds of baskerville case.

When the light clears away, the ghost is damn near solid. Before, his form was hardly there at all, the mist he’s taken control of being the only reason one could not see right through him. Now it appears that, should John stretch out a hand, he would meet cold solidity.

“Well, I see.” The ghost says, holding pastel colored hands out in front of him. The hands are marked by the unique brand of tattoos that all warlocks have. John hasn’t seen Sherlock’s yet, but  the runes are hardly ever visible in normal warlocks. Usually, they appear in times of high stress or deep relaxation.

Mr. Knight turns to Sherlock, who’s looking a bit paler. Granting solid form to a ghost, especially a powerful ghost, is no simple feat, or there’d be a lot more of them walking about like they never died.

“Thank you. Now. About that spell.” Dry, thick skin rubs together, creating a swishing, sandpapery sound as he tests out his temporary body.

“Come along, then. The House is expecting us,” Sherlock says, smoothing his hands down over his coat. The pastel ghost looks at him.

“Right.” As the sun blazes behind them in the last of it’s glory, three solid figures mount the rover, and Sherlock directs them across the barren landscape, bearing with him the ghost of Dewar’s Hollow and his minotauran refugee. Sherlock thinks about his contact, the one who’s supposed to be finding a way to get John to his pack without letting anyone know. As the great House Baskerville comes into view, Sherlock realizes that, when he next meets his contact, his friend won’t be there for very much longer.

It makes him mad. He found someone who doesn’t mind his experiments or his insomnia, his aloofness or his silence, and he’s going to leave. Damn.

Sherlock watches the tall iron gates open, and he wonders if he’ll ever find someone as loyal as John to join him. The only person whose loyalty even matches the smallest amount is Lestrade, who is so clearly out of the running, and Sally, who Sherlock would choke within a week of living together.

He parks, and Elizan escorts them inside and up to the quarters of Gabriel Baldacci. The vampire meets them in the hallway. He runs his eyes over the ghost. They switch to Sherlock.

“Really?”

“Really.” Sherlock says. John shifts a bit, so that his shoulder is in front of Miles Knight. Even if the one threatened is a dead man, John is still protective. It’s his way.

“Right, what’s a ghost doing in the House?”

“He,” Sherlock gestures to the ghost, “is the cause of the hounds and the haunting, and his unfinished business is here.” The vampire looks over the pastel man behind John. The old warlock was seeing one of his vampires. At the time, Gabriel had thought that they’d been in bed, or something close to it. Apparently not.

“Lead on then.” The old and (dead) kindly warlock bows at the waist, before turning and striding off down the hall. On the second floor, he leads them to one of the farthest rooms in the House Baskerville.

His hands seem to know the charm to unlock the door. It swings open, and out of the back room strides a tallish vampire who was changed late in life. He is balding, dressed nicely, and has the look of a tinkerer about him, what with the small screwdriver clutched in one hand.

“Master Gab-” His speech cuts short when he sees who it is who has invaded his privacy. The blood drains out of his face. As fast as he flees into the back, to whatever has cost Miles Knight his life, the ghost is faster. He disappears and reappears holding a little wooden box.

His thick fingers cast the spell with a flair of red. The box opens, unleashing a light of alternating red and army green. The vampire from before runs at them, but Elizan’s there, his hands locking with the old vampire’s body.

“Don’t!” He seems to be almost begging, knuckles tightening as he tries to hold back a much powerful warlock, he is blown back, and then finds himself in direct combat with Gabriel Baldacci. As for John, he must keep Elizan clear as Sherlock turns to the ghost.

As a dead man, he’s not powerful enough to extinguish the spell. He is, however, the only one who knows how. Sherlock strips a glove from his hand as the explosive knocks and blows of the two vampires dueling less than ten feet away damn near blows out his eardrums.

Before, when he had offered his hand to Miles Knight, it had felt like an explosion. The influx of power as he and Mr. Knight had connected had felt amazing. Then Sherlock had fed him, made him solid and given him what strength was needed to walk right past the wards in place for ghosts, and it had been draining. The wards are powerful.

Silver beams and brightens around them as the ghost pulls far too much power from Sherlock. He grits his teeth and holds his position. He can feel himself weakening as the ghost gains what Sherlock had not given him earlier- color and power.

The pale pastels of his countenance are now the deeply tanned of his life. The pink of his suit is now burgandy. Black shoes shine in the bright light. Snowy white hair gains vibrance, if not color. Red runes appear on tanned skin.

The deep and ancient language that warlocks and witches cast in fills the room. The orb in the box glows brighter, red crowding out the green until it expands far beyond stability. Sherlock isn’t sure who’s screaming but someone is.

The red suddenly explodes like lightening, and all is silent.

“Noooo!” The horse call of Elizan from outside the doorway breaks the spell as everyone realizes that two things have happened. The first is that the ghost is gone. Not just absent, but straight up crossed over. No more hounds, no more hauntings.

The second is that the old vampire is dead. Elizan stumbles into the room on clumsy feet. Gabriel, in silent support, catches him up in a hug, sharing mutual grief as Elizan stares at the corpse of what was once his mentor. His expression is far too open for a warlock, nevermind a vampire. Sherlock, where he collapsed during the flash, breathes heavily and watches John, who appears to be bleeding, which isn’t good. The House Baskerville may operate in silence, but that doesn’t mean it is empty.

He makes his way over to him and lays a hand on his arm. John looks at Sherlock and shakes his head. He’ll be fine.

For a few moments, all is silent in the wake of near disaster. Suddenly, the case seems to have caught up to Sherlock, because a bone deep tiredness rips through him and latches on. It refuses to let go.

He hardly remembers getting to the rover and getting to the hotel. He doesn’t remember getting to the train and getting home. He wakes up in his own bed. After a few moments, he realizes why he’s not happy.

He has to meet his contact, and John will disappear forever.

 


	18. A Change In Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets his contact.  
> John sees Amber.  
> Plans change.

There’s a series of unspoken rules that everyone seems to know. Firstly, the first twenty four hours after a case are dedicated to John and Sherlock staying away from each other. After that, they’ve both settled whatever it is that makes them want to commit murder, and they can get on with there lives.

Mostly, Sherlock’s in his room, getting his experiments settled, and John’s on the roof, taking in what sun there is to have. For this time, though, Sherlock’s meeting with his contact. He settles into a booth at a coffee shop and stares at the coffee he ordered. He doesn’t want to be here, but if John thinks Sherlock’s keeping him from his home- the home he so clearly misses- then there’s going to be problems Sherlock won’t be able to solve.

“Hmm… why so somber, love?” His contact says as he slides into the chair across from him. Sherlock gives him a look. The other man shrugs unapologetic shoulders. 

“You look like you need a hug.” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“I don’t need a hug.” All the usual disgust at the idea is infused in the utterance. He chooses not recall how much John actually likes hugs. Really, he’ll run himself ragged over this.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” He slides Sherlock’s coffee over to him an takes a drink.

“For someone with such a sweet tooth, this is rather on the bitter side,” Sherlock’s contact says as he hands the cup back. Sherlock doesn’t pick it up. That’s an invitation.

“Did you find it?” The thin mouth across from Sherlock twists in disapproval.

“No. The Barrier cannot be breached. Not unless you go through the city’s portion of it, anyways. The Deadlands, being dangerous and monster infested, is walled off by a huge energy shield. Supposedly, there’s only one way in- through the gateway into Arcan.  Sherlock raises a hand to rub at his temple. He really doesn’t want to start fucking around with a city. That’s just not a good idea. 

“On the upside, you get to keep your friend for longer.” Sherlock glares at his contact as he gets up to leave. His ass sways intentionally as he departs.

“Until next time, love.”

“Piss yourself, Victor.” Sherlock stares at his coffee, still hot, and considers letting Victor take him up on his unspoken but so very loud invitation. He knows he’s still being watched. It wouldn’t be hard; just a sip. Sherlock shakes his head and raises his hand, looking around for the waitress. She brings his bill, which he pays in cash.

He leaves the cup on the table and stalks down the street. He needs a murder. Or John, but John’s part of the problem, isn’t he? The minotaur wants to go home. Sherlock wants him to stay. Fucking hell. He pulls out his phone and texts Lestrade. Murder it is.

…

John sits on the bench with Amber, watching her closely. Amber is the only minotaur in the city not under the control of something or someone. Every winter she leaves her little rooftop abode and runs with her own clan. Her’s is Yucca, and John hails from the Ironwood clan. They are not enemies, and, since tribes tend to not fight with each other, Amber knows the important parts of the life John left.

“You’re father is still grieving, I think,” she says. John doesn’t know what to say to that. It’d never quite been clear to the minotaur where he stood with his father, just that he stood somewhere.

“Did you see Harry?” Amber smiles.

“Little spitfire, that one. I think she wants to come to Arcan.”

“Can I see her?” Amber’s mouth clamps shut, her strong, dark brows drawn down in contemplation.

“I’m not sure she should see you. We will see, though,” she ventures finally, a thoughtful look on her face. John looks up. It’s rainy today, with the sky swollen and arrhythmic in its greys. In a few minutes or hours, rain will wet Amber’s rooftop residence the way it never does out in the Deadlands.

“Do you remember the storms?” Amber asks. The hush of contemplation stopping her from saying more or going on about Harry.

“Yes.” John says. John was just a baby and Amber a fair sight younger when Snarls and conflict had chased their two clans together near the Barrier and trapped them in one of the most dangerous parts of the desert: Rocker Zone. A few miles to the left of Arcan’s heavily guarded entrance is a series of jagged outcroppings and boulders.The clouds there rain acid. The two clans had ridden out a two-day storm under one of the largest outcroppings in the strip.

“That was a time to remember.”

“It feels like that was a different person.” The conversation trails off.

“Do you want to go home?”

“I’m not sure they’d accept me; I’m a dead minotaur.” Amber smirks at that. Lord knows she’s had her own fair share of “deaths”.

John’s right though: if he does go back, then there’s a high chance that the more mistrustful members of Ironwood will see his sudden reappearance as a trick of black magic. Even if he does convince them that he really did never die, he still won’t have their trust or their loyalty; those are two things that can’t be lived without in a minotauran clan.

“You could be a Wanderkind.” Wanderkinds are the clanless nomads that crisscross the Deadlands and the icelands and it’s cities Arnan, Arcan, Sunan, and Manan, all of which trade with each other and are controlled by elites that are rarely seen. These elites often employ what Wanderkinds there are to transport small items and messages; the Wanderkinds are the best for secrets.

“I could. It’d give a reason to come back,” He says thoughtfully. It’s no secret to Amber that John has begun to like the city and gotten attached to Sherlock. She thinks it’d be better for the both of them for John to be a Wanderkind.

“I’d take you on.” She offers. As a tried and true professional, Amber is John’s best bet and his only option to this plan that isn’t even fully birthed.

“You would?” John didn’t expect this from her; Wanderkinds rarely take on apprentices.

“I’ve grown to like you, John.” The blonde looks down at his hands. He’d get to see his family, but he wouldn’t upset the careful and precarious balance of life as a minotauran clan in the Deadlands. He feels a grin begin to stretch his face; this could work. It could definitely work. He just has to tell Sherlock, now, and take care of his enemies.

Enemies. Right. He’d forgotten. He knows their faces. He considers the best way to go about it. This is going to take a lot of planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm making a comeback, guys.  
> Quick note: I was wondering if my world building makes sense? Please let me know.


	19. The Castle Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock talk.

“But if there’s no way through the barrier, doesn’t that mean we’ll have to through the city?”

“Yes, and that poses problems on it’s own. For one thing, Mycroft is watching the city entrance. After that, I don’t doubt that your captors are looking for you there.”

“Is there a way around them?

“No. Not unless you just happen to know what they look like.” John shakes his head.

“They changed over the years; a different group every couple of months. They probably aren’t around anymore.”

“Right. So someone experienced is leading them. I’m willing to bet that it’s a second in command?” Sherlock’s gaze implores John to either confirm or deny this. John merely shrugs.

“There weren’t permanent faces. That I could see, anyways.”

“Brilliant really; makes it impossible to channel your rage correctly if there’s no real face there for you to pin it on. It’s probably half the reason it took you so long.”

“What if… what if I don’t want to go back? Entirely, I mean.” Silver eyes narrow in thought and curiosity.

“And what would you do instead?” Stay with you. Be happy following you around.

“Be a Wanderkind. Amber says she’ll take me on as an apprentice.” Telling Sherlock about his new and improved goal of becoming a Wanderkind, rather than merely going back to the desert, is more or less easier than John thought it’d be.  

“Makes sense; higher chance of survival, that way.” Sherlock is far more gleeful than he’ll let on; not when it’s just an idea; a fetus of a plan that can die oh-so-quickly if Sherlock pushes too hard and too fast.

“But we still have to find a way to wipe your slate. Is there anything else you can remember?” Oh, he remembers a lot, he just doesn’t want to share. It’s too personal and very raw under the scab. He’ll try, though.

“I don’t know. It wasn’t just one person. There were a lot of them, hired to do every little thing. There were was a doctor and a nurse, men who looked after my cage and manacles, those who looked to my transport and more who were in charge of feeding me. I think I actually saw the mastermind once.”

“Who is he or she?”

“He. It’s a he. I only ever saw him once, way back when I first got sold. There was a mansion; a big one. There were others, maybe a dozen of us. We were all in this big room. It… it felt like the air was choking me; cutting off my magical abilities.

“There were a lot of large, empty cages lining the walls. One by one, we all disappeared. I was one of the last. I didn’t just “disappear”, though. I unlocked my cage and made it into the house’s main body. The house was strange. Every time I took a turn, it changed; hallways that weren’t there before opened up. Walls turned to doors. Doors turned to corners. Corners turned to walls. I could never tell where I was at.

“When he finally caught me, he told his people to put me “in the maze”. He thought it was funny…” John’s voice trails off as he sees something else- something other than what he’s describing to Sherlock. “Months later, after my first fight, I was almost asleep; I wasn’t supposed to be moved for another few hours yet. I heard them talking some ways away. They were speaking of a man called Moriarty. They said his efforts had paid off. I think that’s who he is.” John sits back and looks at Sherlock. his hand creeps out to tug nervously at a dread lock as Sherlock stares off into space. He’s got that look, again.

“Moriarty… is a powerful warlock, known for his exploits in fringe magic. If he’s the one who bought you all those years ago, then that’s reason enough to draw him out… and confront him.” By that, Sherlock means fight him. In keeping with the code all mages follow, Sherlock can, with fair reason, issue a challenge, and fight Moriarty to the death, should he choose to.

All he has to do is gather the evidence and call the counsel.

“Do you know where you were?” John shakes his head.

“But there were mirrors everywhere; comprising the halls, making up the window frames and moulding and door jambs. There seemed to be no escape from them.” There’s only one place where there would be so many mirrors. The counsel, however, won't meet until next year. Sherlock sighs. Well, it’s not as if it’s going to kill him.

He waves a hand glowing with blue and silver veins. After a moment, the limb drops, and the color fades.

“What did you do?”

“I just let my brother know that I need to speak with him.” Sherlock never uses his phone if he doesn’t have to; too easy to listen in on science based inventions. He leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes.

He’ll be able to cast a spell that lets John recall with perfect clarity the sole time he saw Moriarty, but he doubts the little fucker would actually show his face.

“John.” He says without opening his eyes. John, while he’s been thinking, has been tugging and tugging at that dreadlock. It’s a habit Sherlock’s learned to watch for.

“Hmm?”

“We’ll figure it out.” And Sherlock will; he’ll figure it all out. He’ll bring peace. It’s an odd conviction, considering the fact that Sherlock’s only ever been interested in the Work. It’s the best cure for boredom. Then he met John. He’ll have to thank Molly. And threaten Amber. The woman is a Wanderkind. Sherlock does not doubt that John runs the risk of death by trade if he goes with Amber.

But back to the matter at hand.

Moriarty lives alone in a place called the Castle Mirror, which is a manor house on the outer edge of Arcan. True to its name, the inside is completely covered in mirrors. There is no avoiding it. A lot of rumors have passed around the mage world concerning those mirrors. The ones Sherlock thinks is actually true is that, yes, the mirrors will protect their master and that the house is friend to no one; only a servant to it’s strongest inhabitant. if Sherlock were to challenge Moriarty in his house, there’s a chance that he could take control of the mirrors, but he doubts it; Moriarty knows how they work, and Sherlock is guessing at their nature.

A heavy weight on his thigh makes him look down. John’s dreadlocked head is resting against his thigh, butt on the floor, breathing calming. It’s a position they’ve taken many times. Sherlock had a problem the first time (no one had ever done it before) but the detective has grown to like it as much as John does.

In the warm interior of their flat, Sherlock closes his eyes and rubs his thumb along the thick length of a dreadlock, tugging at the root just enough to make John relax further against his thigh. It doesn’t take long until the both of them are asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK!?


	20. Diogenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes a little trip.

Sherlock disembarks the cab, fully dressed in a suit, one side of his hair pushed behind his ear. He looks cold and impersonal. He has exchanged his wool coat for a leather one. Leather does not conduct magic very easily. Over time, Sherlock has learned to cast with it, but not everyone knows how or has the stamina to do so effectively.

The doorman holds out his kid gloved hand in expectation. Sherlock, with his heavy leather hood pulled low, slips a white card into the stranger’s hand and keeps going. On it: his proof of purpose. His long stride is matched by the doorman, who leads him to the elevator. Once inside, the man presses the button labeled “five”. They begin to descend, despite the fact that they’re on the first floor. When they have reached what Sherlock is certain is actually eight floors down,he sees a hanging, well made sign:

The Diogenes Club

He’s led out into a subterranean haven.

Plush, comfortable chairs and sizable side tables dot the champagne carpet. Though there are more than a dozen entities in here, there is near silence, the loudest noise being the clink of a tea cup, and the greatest movement being the movement of a few silent servers. A few great crystal chandeliers hang unobtrusively over the readers and tea drinkers, spreading enough light to read by.

The light is no more searing than the dawn right before the sun is burningly visible, and it is natural; meaning, there without magic. Everything in this room is. It’s part of the reason it’s sometimes soothing to be here, in this club of silence.

Sherlock wanders among the patrons. When he sees a gentleman leave, he heads to the chair behind his abandoned spot. The wingback is against the far wall, and in view of (or rather, as in view of as one gets, here) everything. Mycroft once teased him for always sitting in the “panic” chair. Sherlock told him he’s been stabbed in the back enough times that he’ll sit here all he likes, thank you.

In a few moments, tea and a small book is set down on the side table. Sherlock chances a look up at his server. The blank face presented tells him so much. As the man draws away, off to take up empty dishes and bring books, Sherlock picks up his own literature and begins where he left off.

The book is the diary of an early mage, who saw fit to record phenomena in his journals. Rocker Zone, apparently, was quite a bit bigger in Mr. Sebastian’s day. At some point, he went there with a younger mage whose name is not mentioned.

He reads a chapter and then sets the book down. In its place he recovers the tea that has been cooling and, in tandem with eight of fifteen of those in the room. Sherlock blinks. When he next sees, he is not in the Diogenes club. No, he’s in a pseudo courtroom. Surrounding him are the Eight- the council tasked to… not quite keep the piece, but something similar. His brother is on it, though he has chosen not to attend, as any perceived loyalty will annul his judgement.

“Mr. Holmes, the younger.”

“Yes.” An older mage peers at him from behind glasses long ago made useless by the adoption of the art of witchcraft.

“State your reason for calling this meeting?”

“Either Jim Moriarty or I will die within the month.”

“Is there a reason?” Sherlock could say so many things here. he could say something about John pushing through it all and that the man deserves a second chance. He could say because he has grown to care about the big, blond refugee.  he doesn’t though. These are witches and warlocks. They won’t care about how Sherlock cares, because they’re too busy deciding whether or not Sherlock is within his bounds. So Sherlock, as a native speaker of the language, says simply:

“Territory.”

…

When Sherlock pulls his hood off inside the comfort of his own flat. He hears a muffled groan coming from upstairs. At first, he thinks there’s an attacker. he scales the stairs like they’re not there until he can bang open the door to John’s room and finds there is nothing there; just his minotaur.

Then Sherlock realizes that this is a dream. He gets closer, freezing when his half shifted body turns over, making a new hole in the sheets and blankets and mattress as his horn pierces it. Distantly, he realizes that this is something Sherlock never had to worry about- never even thought about worrying about it.

He needs to wake John. He ventures forward and touches a hand to his flatmate’s shoulder. Before he can draw back, he finds himself grasped tightly and pulled so that he flips over John’s body and finds himself restrained on the bed. He stays utterly still as John, now nearly awake, but not enough to actually register Sherlock's presence, snarls above him, human face framed by great horns, dark armor plating on the outside and smooth, vaguely shiny, champagne-colored enamel on the inside.

Sherlock knows the exact moment that John snapped to, because he seems to stop. he doesn’t move but completely freezes.

“Evening, John,” Sherlock drawls, fully aware of how compromising his position is. It seems to embarrass the minotaur, as he tries to draw back. Sherlock, whose reflexes are none too shabby, either, grabs his wrist.

“It’s all right.”

“No…” He says, as though he’ll never be convinced of anything ever again. In response, Sherlock just tugs. John’s horns retract back into his skull, though Sherlock can still see the blond fur on his legs. For a moment, John just lays there, half on top of the detective and warlock.

“Tell me what you were dreaming of.”

“I was once stranded in Rocker Zone during a storm. I dreamed of that.” Only now does the raging storm outside gain significance to the Arnan native.

“I have a plan.”

“Do you?” John says immediately, more than willing to focus on anything but the dream, on anything but the two of them.

“It’s a bit ugly, though.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think.


	21. Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get there.

John is sitting quietly in the backseat of an older car. Sherlock drives. He wends and winds them slowly and carefully through the slippery and crowded streets of Arcan to the city center. Six blocks away, Sherlock pulls over and parks, the make and model and condition of the car making it look like it belongs. John climbs out of the back and Sherlock the front. Side by side, they mount the sidewalk and traverse the concrete and rain quickly, but not suspiciously.

Others walk past them, but not many. In no time, they cover the distance between their car and the Tower. The giant skyscraper is the center of Arcan, heavily protected, and the top hat on the head of all Arnan’s underbelly.

Sherlock, being who he is, gains access easily, and introduces John to the man at the desk as his assistant. It’s not uncommon for magicians to take lovers/companions and call them assistant to maximize the amount of time one gets with them. It’s also not unusual for magicians to make lovers and companions of their assistants/apprentices, so Sherlock sells the introduction by guiding John through the door by the small of his back.

They take the elevator up, up, up, to one of the highest floors in the tower. Then, they weave among the other unaligned magicians who have offices here (every one of Arcan’s permanent resident magicians have official offices, whether they use them or not. Sherlock uses his maybe twice yearly. Sometimes it’s a bit higher than that, when Sherlock is contracted for very, very interested crimes to solve.

His office is not touched when he is not there. It’s only clean because of Sherlock’s own spells. The door automatically lock when Sherlock swings it shut. John stands stiff and silent in the midst of so much magic. Sherlock cocks his head.

“Nothing is coming for you here.” John looks away. He has had one too many experiences with things coming to get him. Sherlock leans down and to the side.

“Do you trust me?” No. Yes. Maybe. No. Yes. Yes. He thinks so. He’s really not sure anymore, what with this suicidal plan Sherlock’s got going on in that brilliant head of his and he just doesn’t kno-

“Hey.” Sherlock presses his proud forehead to John’s. Their eyes meet. The strain and stress he’s been feeling since last night seems to push John over the edge, because he rocks his face forwards, so that his mouth collides with Sherlock’s.

They stay like that for a moment before John speaks. He doesn’t bother to move back.

“Should you be trusted?”

“Not sure.” Sherlock kisses him harder, hands coming up to take hold of John’s dreads while at the same time backing John up so that he bumps against the desk. John wraps a leg around Sherlock’s and makes him back up an inch and no more.

“But you have a suicidal scheme...”

“Do I look like the type to kill myself?” why hadn’t he done this before? It makes Sherlock feel electric.

“Not sure. You’re the type to do just about anything else.” If John was going to be this receptive (shit. He started this) Sherlock would have done this a long time ago and saved himself the painful and near disastrous trip to see Victor.

Sherlock pushes his nose down the seam of John’s, grinning.

“You’ve followed me thus far. May as well finish the ride.”

“Well, in terms of mortality…”  John kisses as far down his neck as his collar will allow.

“Like you give a damn.” Sherlock does to John’s neck what the minotaur is doing to him, just for the growl he hears.

“Actually…”

“Spare me the excuses. You knew,” Sherlock sucks a hickey into the juncture between neck and the uppermost portion of his trapezius, “and you stayed.” John huffs out a breath. “You could have gone with Amber. With Molly,” Sherlock bites him and then pulls back to look him in the eye.

“You could have left at any moment but you stayed, so I’m going to ask you again. Do. You. Trust. Me?” John pants a bit; they both do. Brown eyes lock with blue ones.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Whatever John needed seems to have faded, though he’s still looking at Sherlock like he’d rather fuck than fight. Sherlock makes a note to pick this up at a later date. As early a later date as possible, in fact.

For now, though, he can feel the elevator carriage ascend to a floor above theirs.

“Let’s go,” Sherlock says as he backs up, giving John space to set his shirt to rights once more. That’s the lovely thing about leather- it doesn’t show signs of kissing your flatmate. Sherlock steps out of his office, disguising John’s aura with an extra spell or two. He is merely an assistant.

Sherlock lays his hand on the elevator and activates the charm he laid earlier. The doors open. Sherlock holds out his hand to John, who takes it. They step out into empty space and drop straight down. Only another spell spoken with the accompanying silver and blue aura stop them from splatting against the ground.

They descend smoothly and without complications down past the areas they’re allowed in. When they reach the floor of the Diogenes Club, the elevator will go no further.

Sherlock leads John through the empty club- the last went home an hour ago- and to the door on the other side. He turns and grins at John as the minotaur peers into an empty chasm.

“Down the rabbit hole.” Then the avi jumps, John wasting no time in following.

…

Great marble pillars rise to support the huge underground cavern that is the center of Arcan’s underbelly. Sherlock and John drop through a hole in the roof. It’s actually heavily magicked, but Sherlock’s long ago figured out how to get through it without setting off any alarms.

With the fall, John had transformed into a minotaur. He does not need a platform to stand on, so Sherlock does not break his fall.

for a moment, they stand in the inky blackness that is only so broken by old fashioned forever burning torches. For the second time in  the hour, Sherlock offers his hand. John takes it.

Together, they walk off into the dark.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I have one or two chapters after this.


	22. Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Moriarty meet.

It’s not damp in here, though it feels like it should be. It is, however, echoey, so Sherlock and John move in silence. Great waves of magic emanate gently from beyond eyesight or any other sense. John catches on and opens his third eye.

The room positively glows, waves of the stuff washing gently and unobtrusively over their bodies. There is something great and powerful up ahead. Silently, they pick up speed until they are racing along the cavern, drawn to whatever it is. It calls to the magic in them both.

A hundred feet away, there’s a huge, cylindrical container. In it: a glowing ball of raw, compressed magic. They stop, spell broken.

“Beyond that is the gate,” Sherlock rumbles as he takes the lead. They give the ball a wide berth. In his head, John silently identifies the Core.

It takes them several minutes to get to the side opposite.

On the other side is the consol Sherlock spoke of when he was outlining the plan. The consol is not like others. It’s just a single rectangle with curved corners. The shifting rainbow light from the Core dyes the white surface different colors.

Sherlock breathes in, then out, slowly. He lays both hands against the cool plastic. It immediately grows to burning temperatures under his bare hands. The veins of his hands are iridescent with blue and silver magic as he lets down his shields and syncs with the Core.

He grunts.

“Shite.”

“Are you-”

“Yes, fine, thank you, turn around. The gate should open at any moment.” Sherlock’s mouth tightens in concentration as the tendons and muscles in his hands stand out and a vein on his neck is cast in sharp relief. John watches him for one more moment before turning around to watch.

The gate isn’t actually a gate- it’s just a place in the Barrier that’s been specially outfitted for opening and closing. It’s takes serious concentration and energy to get it to open.

The field starts to shift and shimmer in a different way than the rest of the Barrier does. In the middle, a tiny pinhole appears. Slowly but surely, it gets bigger. When it is the size of John’s head, discounting the horns, it stops. Sherlock jerks his head around, staring off into the distance. A very particular distance.

“Very well done, getting this far. Thought the Tower would catch you for sure.” Moriarty. The man with the Mirrors. John bares his minotauran teeth, soft, velvety ears pointing backwards hands tightening and ribbons of magic begin to twist and undulate around his hairy forearms.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock’s hands are still on the hot consol as his eyebrows draw downwards.

“Of course, I’d love to just let you go but you,” here, he points at John, whose head lowers, as if to charge. His third eye glares daggers just as his large, bovine eyes do. “Are invaluable in the ring. And such great entertainment outside of it, as well.”

The visible ribbons of magic begin to compact and coalesce in one hand and extend outwards in a bright, moving flash. As it fades, it leaves behind it smooth metal and a heavy, extensive guard- John’s sword.

Sherlock pulls of the consol, scraps of magic looking like ripping flesh for just a moment before they find their home- either in the Core’s interface or in Sherlock’s own hands. The detective is devoured in smoke for less than a second before it dissipates into armour, the likes of which John’s is already wearing.

“Very well, then,” Sherlock says. Then, out of his back rises the dark shadows of black wings as he crouches and lunges across the floor. Moriarty, his own transformation taking just a moment, meets him half way. Galdios clash, beautiful smithery clanging up against each other before Sherlock pulls back and goes for another one,

Moriarty, his shorter, darker countenance sprouting his own wings, laughs in his face.

“Look at you! What’s your aim now? What do you want him for, warlock?” He whispers as their respective arms shake.

“None of your business!” Comes the hiss as Sherlock pulls magic out from his ether and sends it along the swirling, ancient designs of the galdio, strengthening his attack. Moriarty matches hm tit for tat.

Sherlock is forced to draw back again.

“Oh, but it is! Removing the collar doesn’t make yours!” Sherlock comes at him head on, trying to impale him on the tip.

“Aye.” Sherlock is readying for something- what, Jim doesn’t know, but he does know that he has his own agenda.

“But it seavers you claim!” Jim throws Sherlock with some difficulty. The detective doesn’t even touch the ground, instead flaring his black wings as he twists into a spiral nose dive.

It’s then that Jim realizes it- John. John is not fighting, like he was told not to. He wouldn’t just stand there on his own. No, he’s waiting for something. It’s too late, though.

Sherlock’s already retreated for the fifth time. Now, though, he’s not coming back. Now, every vein in his body, every orifice, every notch and eddie on him has begun to glow. He lights up like the damn barrier and, from him: a long, twisting column of smoke. There is the strong smell of cigarettes in the air for a moment. Then, it is forgotten as a great, reptilian beast claws his way into existence.

Sherlock Holmes has magicked himself into a dragon.

Moriarty responds in kind, body a deep purple. If Sherlock wants to fight with Others, than fight they will. they meet fifty feet away from the core. Subconsciously, each wizard steps farther away- it won’t do to die of clumsiness.

Sherlock comes at Moriarty again, claws raking along his side and glancing off hard plates of armour. Moriarty draws back and releases a hail of fire across Sherlock’s snout. It burns against his eyes before a second lid blinks into place.

Down on the ground, John does as Sherlock planned and rushes the consol. He lays both thick, four-fingered hands against the surface. It’s strikingly cool when not serving as a connection between everyone in the room and the Core that powers the Barrier.

As soon as John lays his hands on it, he wishes to back away and reach for his sheathed sword. He resists, though, and the magic slams into him. He is unaware that he makes a sound as the Core’s overpowering mass flows and claws its way through him. His head drops as his body stays strong.

As hard as it is to stay connected or leave, John’s mind has come… not alive- no, his mind is always alive- but something like being rebirthed. He’s gasping and heaving now as he feels like a god and like a monster.

Behind him, the Barrier snaps and crackles, ready to resist fluctuation. John is not interested in moving the desert beyond, though. No, he is interested in the way magic is absorbed by said barrier.

As soon as he reaches out to it, he feels as though a cat simultaneously presses into his hand and scratches at it. A great, big, energetic cat. Mentally he thinks about what he wants to happen, how he wants to make it stronger, not change it. How there are two targets fighting right there next to it.

Though John would rather zone in only on Moriarty, it is imperative to Sherlock’s self imposed exile from magician kind that the fight remain fair. If John directs the barrier to pull energy from Moriarty, Sherlock’s must be pulled, too.

The increased senses that come with connecting with the Barrier allows John to pick up footsteps a while away. They must stay away until he is done. Just like that, another field walls them off.

Sherlock can feel the energy draining faster than usual and knows without looking that John has done it. Now, he only needs to outlast him. His claws catch on an old scar and rakes the plates off. First blood to Sherlock. Moriarty succeeds in getting his mouth wrapped around Sherlock’s leg and crunches down.

The inhuman scream of a dragon is heard even as Sherlock gets ahold of the scar and rakes powerful plated arms down it, tearing a rip from hip to the smaller, stronger scales of the neck. Sherlock catches a wing to the face as an extra tear gets him through the biological mail. Then, in a serpentine twist, Sherlock locks his jaw on the near-exposed flesh and bites down.

He bites even as it feels as though his life force is sucked out of them. He bites even as Moriarty ravages his leg further and tears a new gash across the hip. He bites even as a broken wing sends both of them down. He bites even as he gets dizzy and Moriarty lands on top of him.

Only when the dragon has fallen still and transformed back into a dead magician does Sherlock let go. He connects eyes with John, who has been able to think past the Barrier enough to watch. John rips his hands away, and the Core returns everything to normal.

Sherlock is unconscious by the time whoever is coming down the cavern gets here. By then, John has pushed him straight, and used the things on the inside of Sherlock’s coat to staunch the bleeding.

Victory, John thinks numbly, always cost more than you think it will.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hai, guys. This chapter was like shitting bricks, so let me know if turned out all right.  
> P.S. There's not much left, now. Maybe an epilogue.


	23. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curtains down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKSGIVING UPDATE!!!!

John remembers, years ago, when Sherlock used so much power that his hair turned silver and grew to his knees. He remembers the blood dying it. The memory spurs him on faster, towards the open Gate. Sand kicks up as he clears the entrance and gradually slows to a stop.

He checks in and exits the building- the process is fairly quick, since he’s one of the few Wanderkinds, now, and has his own unique set of papers. He decides that he’ll catch a cab. Normally, he just runs, but it’s summer, the desert heat is stifling, and it’s no better within the cramped confines of the city.

An hour later, the cab drops him off in front of his old home. He pulls the key out from under the broad plate of his wesekh and lets himself in. Even before he scales the stairs, he knows that Sherlock isn’t home.

As an avi, a warlock, and a detective, nevermind his actual personality, Sherlock wanders almost as much as John does. Later, the minotaur will figure out where he’s run off to and go find him, but for now, he’s tired, it’s hot, and it’s time for a nap.

He totters off down the hall to the bedroom that he never used to sleep in, back when they first met. He goes over to the large, scratched wooden chest and, one by one, strips his armor off. The only thing that remains is the collar.

Next, he heads to the bathroom and, after showering, brings back the kit always kept in the flat. One by one, he buffs and cleans his armor to newness before replacing them in the pockets of the chest. When he’s done with that, he crawls into bed and sleeps the remainder of the morning and most of the evening away.

It is only at nine o’clock that the bed dips under the weight of another. John is instantly awake as he feels the powerful, wiry arm slide over his side. So his lover has not gone wandering afterall.

“I missed you,” John murmurs as he turns over and envelopes Sherlock in the greater mass of his body. A wing that the desert doctor had healed himself wrapps over the both of them.

“Here I thought I’d miss you.” John chuckles. It’s odd if they actually meet with no planning, not if they miss each other.

“Where?”

“Past Wuthering. Another hound phenomenon. Sounds like a copycat, but I’m rather bored, as of this morning.” This afternoon, he trudged up the stairs to find a minotaur in his flat.

“Sounds fun.”

“Mm hm. More so with your presence, John, being as I tend to get impaled on things quite a bit whether you’re here or not.” John laughs.

“Sounds like I’ll be going with you.”

“Yes. Yes it does.”

Nine years ago, Sherlock nearly died to set John free. The minotaur would follow him anywhere, even if they weren’t lovers. Even if John wouldn’t waste away without him. Even if he wasn’t hopelessly in love and attached to him, sappy as it is.

After all, his detective likes to bleed out on the ground, which is an unfortunate waste of brain, right there.

“When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow evening. Plenty of time to accommodate.” John smiles against his neck as he presses a kiss there.

Plenty of time, indeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A goodbye comment would be much appreciated.  
> P.S. There may be art.

**Author's Note:**

> Totally shouldn't be writing this but it got into my head and it won't get out.


End file.
